I often wonder what Aesop Carr was like.
In countless days and nights of communication between him and me, I found that he never seemed to turn his eyes to the emotions themselves. He mistakenly relied on the wrong things and firmly believed in them.
I know he remembers the dust rising in the cemetery and his master;
I know he remembers the makeup on her face when the coffin lid closed, remembers his lover;
I know he remembers the way those stones hit him, and the people who gave him pain and isolation.
But I'm not sure whether he will remember me and the overwhelming yellow rose bushes.
Purpose: Try to understand what love is