Life has a cycle. Four seasons a year, twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days. Every morning the sun comes up. Every evening the sun sets. Nature is blossoming, yellowing. We're cold, we're getting warm. The freezing cold of the hearth does not process us from what we expect from the sun in June.
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If we're not afraid of the late night, we know it's going to be on for a few hours. From apples, to dreaming of the taste of cherry if we're not bored of mandarin. Life itself is routine. Knowing the future, the future will be forgotten. Hope.
If I say home, it's because you own it. How many times have we talked, you don't want to fix it or change it, you don't leave it, you don't quit. I'm telling you, you're pretending to be religions, you're right, so if I'm right, what you're gonna do, you say something, but you don't do them.
Sometimes our mutual voices are rising, we don't talk for a few days, I sleep in the hall. Then we start to talk in the same house. We're laughing at two funny things. Then I start to sleep next to you. You think I forgot everything and you're not doing anything again. Our life continues in the same bath.
I'm not gonna be able to call this hope for you, who wrote me a letter on this peaceful window at six o'clock in the morning. You know why I'm writing you a letter?
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Always read what you've heard. To come in one ear and the other ear, the mass in his hand. To keep in mind what you didn't do. Just remember if you forget why I went.
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