Our change will happen not at the midnight of cakes and candles, with loud claps and crackers but in the doorways, each time we pass them like ghosts, room to room, under flowers, delicately painted on their frames on yellow.

The doorway is not inside nor there in space but just hanging on time, as we hop and skip ,holding our hems from paint sticking to them.The year-end is a doorway that will disappear in the dusty lane and in the dust we can’t recall what ghosts we had been in the room we left behind.


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