Sitting on an unstable tabouret

At the end, not more than two months did spring last.

In some parts of the world (or is it just for some people?) it is not summer which comes after spring but a new winter. After hopes have been blossoming together with nature, everything froze again and disappointment is all the more bitter. And all the more compelling the question: will I be able to endure yet another winter?

Another hour, another day, another week slowly go by, swinging between the acknowledgment that the brightest memories of this out-of-season spring will stay with you and the frustration for not getting the reason why all this had to abruptly finish.
Hanging in the balance as if sitting on a too tall barstool.

In Place du Jeu de Balle a broken saxophone lies abandoned on a bed of old cutlery. Will someone who understands a sax ever get the idea of looking down, knowing it is just a cutlery stall? Who could ever think they all were just pieces of the same metal?

For a moment I wished I understood saxophones.
Now I wish someone understood we are not all the same piece of metal.