No labels for a while.

The cord is like spider silk that glistens with dew drops in the amber grey mornings of autumn. We wind it in as if it were Ariadne's own thread and we were Theseus, our ladybrinth made of memories and feelings so beautiful they cut our hearts open, steaming in the air as a lamb's breath before the first winter. And the most terrible of these is the wonder and joy in simply being alive.