The rain writes faded letters on the window. One summer, I suddenly stopped breathing, like an unfinished musical score, like a half-cigarette left at dawn.
Later, I finally understood that all the moist memories will evaporate, and only silence will grow small cracks in the bones.
Time is a forgetful postman, sending us to different morning and dusk lines, and those return stamps are lost in yesterday that will never arrive.
Intention: Persevere in ideals and be pure in the present.