The Smell of Cherry Tobacco and Autumn.

Maybe that's my last smoke on the stairs of my Blockhouse Paradise. Someone has been here before. Someone left the smell of cherry tobacco. The rain drops playing melody on the window. It's raining. Latvian "Muse" [S.P.B.] is telling sad stories about past times, when we were poets and dreamers. Rising the urge of being hurt. Just a little bit. And I have no power to tell them to shut up. And it comes... silently and suddenly, but always at the same time - the Autumn Melancholy. With the longing for something undefined. The feeling that summer is gone. Gone with the birds. Gone far. Gone to Africa. Maybe.

But my Siberian-striped friend as usually joins me in my smoking ritual, playing with my hand as it was his own property. Enjoyable Cat flirt and the scars for memories.
Good-bye, my friend, I'll keep you here [in my heart.].