All the endings have been written, all the tears have alternated, but I suddenly forgot what kind of beginning it was. In that ancient late autumn that will never come back, no matter how I trace it back, you were worth the flames at that time. Your cold face was very light and pale. I gradually opened the yellowed title page. Destiny had bound it extremely poorly. I read it again and again with longing, but I have to admit that Killing is a hasty record.