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A woman is a soul of mystery, sometimes to herself as well. She can take the pain of an entire ocean yet not shed a tear. She can be a need for a hundred souls, an inspiration to the fallen and shoulder to the broken. She can become everything one needs her to be. But sometimes she’s just her; dreamer like a child and winged like a free bird; trying to let go everything; dying to be alone…

It’s a season of endless passion. Artists are inspired and philosophers seduced. Musicians compose romantic notes; poets illustrate beauty; Painters visualize imagination and writers pen contemplation. Pours that make you close your eyes and forget everything, lead you to trance. Nature calls and everything alive that can hear the melody, responds with an open heart and is drenched in love.

Down the lane, there is a house; small; but big enough for two people in their late sixties. Decayed in love of their children, they hold hands to see each other. The streetlight colors their porch; ochre in sepia. Perhaps the perfect colour that fades like the roses they found in each other’s diaries.