I’ve been hearing a lot of people talking about how when someone’s born into a burning house, they think that the world is on fire.
You live in October. Warm sunlight drizzling down into your coffee, sweet like caramel. The cinnamon breeze spices the froth— a sprinkle of crimson powder.
A forest sprawls out in front of you. The night lights the forest in a brilliant shade of blue, as if it were part of the sky.