He became impatient and ordered cup after cup of coffee, drinking them all in one gulp. He put his feet on the chair and took them off again, repeated many times. He said: "I don't know, I really don't know. If I knew he would do that, maybe I would be nicer to him..."
"I never paid attention to him. He was like a dog, following me, delivering everything I needed to my hands, and then continuing to follow me silently. He never said what he wanted. If he didn't say it, I never thought about it. I never even thought of turning around and taking a good look at him..."
When he left, I was the only customer left in the coffee shop. His background was stretched out in the sunset. I looked at the ashtray filled with cigarette butts in front of me, and vaguely remembered his repeated words: "I always thought that he would always be there, always. I forgot, he might also stop and take a rest..."
When recording this story, my pen was unable to write a single word because of the pain in my heart, but every time I was quiet, I kept thinking about every detail between the two, the boy's blurred face, his increasingly decadent life, and a funeral half a year ago...
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