The house, when all leave is less strangely empty, as if it were left to recover it. There is a laundry (small) to spread in the morning, spending (small) to make, lunch (small) to prepare. The black cat that looks at me puzzled and taken hostage in my feet since early morning, the gray Tina continues to live as if nothing had happened. And then there's the evening, you can read evening until late, so late ...
And, if you listen well, there is a new kind of silence that is absence of voices, not absence of words.
And a little 'I love this house. Holidays. Of others.
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