By raj808 on Skatehive
Image by Thomas Budach from Pixabay Prague, 22 September 1994 Dear silent friend, Once again I will force you to bear the tremulous handwriting of this pathetic old man. Time has yellowed my fingers and your pages in equal measure. But I know you will not complain in finding yourself soiled by my memories once again, after such a long time, after the hiatus of decades of life, spent far away from the ancient leather of your cover. And I hope it did not bother you to try the tickling of my pen again. Not more than three spots of water and ten sheets before this, you still were curiously waiting for the hand of a fourteen-year-old, full of dreams and watercolours. As I write, the mist rises from Moldova and lingers among the ancient gothic spires, guardians of forgotten secrets, while a pale September sun, as a master of alchemy, transmutes in gold water and heavens. There is this little kestrel who, for a few days, has been picking on the attic's glass at dusk, while I perform my little