It's raining and I remember again my grandpa's words: Lord, give it clean! It feels like quenching a fire, one of the first autumn rains, its sound growing, tapping on the tin windowsills, slithering through trees and through my veins...Lord don't let us grow old, my grandpa also used to say. Is it youth or old age within this rain? Only time can tell...

rain...
the season of handmade bricks
long forgotten