I want to listen to the cry of life, the burning of passion, and the boiling of blood in the smoke.
I want to quietly end my desolate years with the lingering warmth that passes through my chest, smelling the smell of gunpowder.
I want to be able to see your lovely face when I look back at the place where my blood is shed, and the moment my body temperature gradually cools down.
That will be my only hope in this world, an indelible proof of beauty.
If I am lucky enough, I will fall into your solid stalwart again and tell you the sorrows along the way and the emotions of a lifetime. Is it good?