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Description

"My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past; The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; The time of the singing [of birds] is come, And the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land;
The fig-tree ripeneth her green figs, And the vines are in blossom; They give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, In the covert of the steep place, Let me see thy countenance, Let me hear thy voice; For sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely."
-Canticles-

There is a young woman, waiting, contemplating the light, playing by herself in an old, deserted house.
I don't know why.
She may knows that the outside world is an illusion and that it doesn't matter staying there or going out.
She even may be an illusion herself.
What I know is that she isn't sad at all, life is perfect has it is.

Description

"My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past; The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; The time of the singing [of birds] is come, And the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land;
The fig-tree ripeneth her green figs, And the vines are in blossom; They give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, In the covert of the steep place, Let me see thy countenance, Let me hear thy voice; For sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely."
-Canticles-

There is a young woman, waiting, contemplating the light, playing by herself in an old, deserted house.
I don't know why.
She may knows that the outside world is an illusion and that it doesn't matter staying there or going out.
She even may be an illusion herself.
What I know is that she isn't sad at all, life is perfect has it is.