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I know I would’ve wanted not to say anything but I wanna say it anyway, I would take it away like a paper blown by the lonesome wind hissing there for some frigid things to thaw. And when it suddenly fires up and I was gone, I certainly have missed. It was something crucial for a paper at stray to stop and find its source, the hand which held it with fair hands. It will come. And it will come without any handwriting because it was blank when it left, and it was blanched because nobody cared. Eventually it will smolder up the sunset hill and strew over the grassland because there was something more than just staying on a single place and giving up my life to something which was gold but rare. It was probably lolling to pin it down the road, but it will eventually, highly possibly travel, but would I still find it pure and honest and untouched when it passes through in front of me and I would I notice that it was something that I’ve been looking for? A thing that I have lost, was actually never lost, and was being blown continuously, just like how the clouds maneuver, just as how humans breath without noticing we are actually alive.