"You are like no one else, because I love you." - Pablo Neruda. Among the hustle and bustle of cars and horses, the slow voice of mail in the past has long disappeared. Are you willing to listen to the self-narration of a lonely person? He is the light for all. But, he is my light and no one knows that.
Intention: This is a story that is still happening, or perhaps a story that has ended. Are you willing to stop and listen to the expressions of lonely people?