Well, hello everyone who's not here at the time I'm posting this and who's, probably, gonna read this a bit later :)
To begin with, this place is supposed to become an attic. Filled with delusions and thoughts, which occasional bursts of emotions and pinky girly stuff. An attic cluttered with boxes and memories, which are sometimes better to get rid of. A warm and dusty place, where you spend your summer nights with a cup of bergamot tea, re-reading the long-forgotten books and resembling stories of your own life.
Let's open this 'attic' with the first chapter of one of the world's greatest "summer novels" Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury
It was a quiet morning, the town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow. You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning of summer.
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