Just like it was agreed that she would be late, just like it was agreed that I already knew it. Four years, after all, is a long time. The heat is on the window and I can't see outside, looking for you anxiously. But, but, it's like never remembering that whisper in the ear, just like never remembering the encounter between you and me.
Two stories. Is it to remember? Is it burial? Those roaring years.