A Sunday Morning

By Isabella Vell

Coffee`s boiling, a cigarette again; just a Sunday. Thoughts of days long past simply disappear. Still
fresh, then, some processed cheese to ruin my stomach and to refresh my mind from the wine.
Memories again, I hate to laugh, time is flying too fast, I don`t want to remember
Years are flying through my mind and I can remember nothing. All is gone, and life is short again.
The only thing I can think of is to fly away, to simply vanish in the morning mist. Life is gone; love is
gone, only the sweet flavours of a chocolate wrapping fill in the air of my childhood room.
Silence is not the gift of life; silence is just a possibility, which I would never advise you to choose.
Choice is just a probability, which I would always advise you to make happen. Then, just eat and
avoid tears; tears make silence happen. If tears disappear, then laughter comes, then choice is a bit
more probable; I would really advise you to make choice happen.
Choice is never to choose. Choice is to happen like to go to the event of your life, like to never
show up at formal gatherings, like to never remember the tears, to never forget the laughter of the
dinosaurs.
Dinosaurs believed they were the most beautiful creatures in the world. They were the strongest,
however, not the fastest. They just could never learn to fly. Flying is not a possibility, nor it is a
probability, just an option; low costing