of old

Another season goes by and the air slightly shakes the loaf of the roasted tree.

The lapse of time, inevitable, from the rotten chair to the kitten sitting on the legs of old Penelope.

Extensively deep, that the deepest of deepest does not seem deep enough.

The memories of old seem more vivid along the sunset of porta bella. For this is the only thing that seems to prevail, the portrait of memories that embraces through the corridors of the mind.

Being and time, only through the reality of both is the existence of all.