Kysel I

She told me about her grandmother, about things going or not going on when it rains, about the sound of a guitar, about how clouds painted the sky drawing strange figures... and everything seemed to be so real. In fact it was. All the drawings existed, they were kept there, in the glass cabinet. The glass cabinet was high enough so the Sun wouldn't ruin them all at dawn, when it drew a rainbow in the carpet thanks to the light refraction in one of the cupboard polyhedral handles. Somehow, having this mixture of lights, everything looked like a dream and even the vapour when breathing made freezing cold something idyllic. Wind got in through the crack opened doors. It was that kind of sound that as soon as you heard it once it became engraved in your memory and from then on any vague and remote similarity with it in any other place would make you visualize that particular light so clearly. She never played guitar there because it was too cold but she always went there to translate into inspiration the reflections of the glass cabinet because they condensed past and present. And maybe future too. Because in the flowing of Present, though unintentionally, some glimmers, or maybe longings, of the Future do filter. As they do in the drawings of the glass cabinet.