Whenever the sun and rain have passed, or when I stand under the gray sky on the second level and look up at the sunlight barely shining through the rain and fog above my head, I always think of something different from usual.
Thinking of Raphael's thin back, and the way the golden sunlight chased the tips of his rose-colored hair when he was a child, he looked like a mural decorated with gold powder on a palace on earth, which would become blurry as time goes by, and then, eternity.
He exists forever. If I miss him, or he misses me.
Now we miss each other.
I am now standing in his courtyard. The heaven he controls is always as melancholy as his mood. I have often not set foot below the fourth heaven for hundreds of years. The yellow light of the seventh heaven shrouds the archangels.
I didn't know until now that it was so uncomfortable for him to be illuminated by the holy light, but because of me, he pretended to like it there, and he liked it enthusiastically.
There is a tall rose tree in his courtyard. It is said that he planted it himself. The flowers are in bloom and the color is light like his hair color.
I looked up at the tree and thought about something, something I should know but had never ignored, everything that belonged to him.
If I think about it a little bit every day, we have spent so many years, too many to count. If I think about it a little bit every day, maybe I can forget him a little slower.
Conception: