Time is the most ruthless thief, and you have already been robbed. You once sighed to me with the gentlest cruelty, "You will eventually forget me, when you grow up..." Maybe I existed between the lines in your letters, in the elegant ink marks on the scrolls, in the first few pages of your long adolescence, in the infatuated melody of fado, in the intoxicating foxtrot... Moist, dim, and decisive. Maybe I never existed at all. The raindrops wet all the dusty images. When the wind blows, those words are wiped away with the wind, as if the memory has never been there, and the biggest wound in my heart is "existence".