past few days, i oftenly wrote about myself, yourself, and people around me which are formed into phrases. talking about something that is not pleonastic. talking about feelings, angers, hatred, and advices. i do not know when it will be over, (or maybe you can pull out the point, automatically) but indeed, it will be last longing. sure now, i can not write about thousand words anymore because i do not want to. the pain will not be healed. the path has dead. the world has changed. the fresh has rotten. it looks creepy but that is the way i feel. i can say, "There is no more funny game." the screen has turned black and white, the 'mime' has lived again. and, the story covered by its silence. neither ripples or texts are blurry, i hope they turn invisible soon.
