Many, many years later, when I was dying, when I was standing in a garden full of flowers, when I was lying on the bed unable to move, I recalled in my mind that there was only one picture left, of his deep eyes, staring at me silently through the torrent of time, across thousands of rivers and mountains.
I stretched out my hand towards him, hoping to touch his handsome face, but in the end, I could only touch a piece of air.
This is just the way it is in my life.
It's just a change of scenery, that's all.
I am incompetent as a copywriter. Maybe the writing is just incompetent.