The white curtains rise slowly on a slow breeze.

They fall again.

Voices flow in and flow out, from the garden. 

They are slow too.

The dog lies in her corner.

Her breaths in and out are a metronome keeping track of playtime.

I do not want this to end.

But I want to grow up.

But I do not want this to end.

The sun streams in, the dust sparkles like glitter and pulses with the breaths of the dog, in and out, in her corner.

I notice it.

I breathe too. 

In and out.

I notice it.

Suddenly, playtime comes to an end.

Everything else, too.

I wish I hadn't wanted to grow up.


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