Even cold November rain

I like buying flowers but I always forget to water them so they slowly whither away in mother's Lalique vases. I usually keep them the way they are because they act as a reminder that nothing lasts forever.

It's both a necessity and a relief, every hour of every day becomes a little less stressful. Henry got me daffodils, my favorite, more than a year ago and the way they stand now somehow points to a way out of the meaninglessness.

Wilted flowers intrigue me. They look resistant, almost perpetual, but while nothing happens to them if you leave them alone they will break into a million little pieces if you touch them. They're like the wings of a butterfly or an illustration of life behind these walls, seemingly frozen in time and space but so delicate that even a whisper could dissolve the shadows untill nothing of the old remains.