- Into the space -

From afar, I can see its window sheltering under the building’s shadows. A few more steps, heaven lies ahead, even though the room has barely any furniture, or decorations, or ethereal aroma. Its space is so limited 2 people would feel cramped in it. It is mostly empty, with only a small brown wooden piano, a black chair of typical modern design, and 2 frameless mirrors, one short, one long. A window covers almost half the wall, making way for natural sunlight, accompanied by shades of green from the grass right outside. The wall is made of bare, rough, deep antique red bricks evenly placed side by side, occasionally stained with white paint. Some bricks scream of being time’s victims. The borders among the bricks are blurry, yet attracting intense attraction over their colors. The room is enchanting in the varied intensity of redness, the touch of whiteness, the interruption of brownness, and the occasional sojourn of greenness.

- Time out -

The pasture screams freedom. Her voice at its loudest doesn’t seem to bother anyone on the other side, drowned in the pasture’s sparkling green. Under shadows of the trees, its border boasts flashing shades of Western Massachusetts red-yellow fall. The pasture smells of newly mowed grass with a touch of dewdrops. Yet take a step further, she discovers that the grass is higher than she imagined. Setting a foot into the grass sparks feelings of a charming giant demolishing a range of troublesome mountains. Amidst the pasture lies a strange area of bare soil, with dashes of short grass. One can only guess that it is the product of either nature’s condemnation, or human intrusion. Far from that area, flocks of birds are constantly jumping front and back between the grasses. A couple of squirrels are playing nearby. She steps into the middle of the pasture, expecting feelings of smallness, but only caught by sensations of pure liveliness.

- Time out, again -

Fall has officially stepped in, seen in the red-yellowy leaves coating the border of the pasture; or maybe it’s the rain that drags them off their branches. Their color seems to evaporate into the rain, into the darkness amplified by the dominance of black drifting clouds. The rain at times drums, at times patters as if it’s patting the grasses, attempting to soften their pointed tops. Despite the dampness of the water, the smell of grass still permeates and dominates, or maybe it’s just her asthma going wild, so her brain brings back its memory. The pasture is drowned in a blanket of fog, yet the shades of green shine through. Under the pouring rain, there’s only greenness, greener than ever with the effects of water. Yet in the rain, there stands the pasture with an ever-stretching green, uninterrupted by any beings, a king in his kingdom all by himself.