Three shades of leaves are resting on my face, saving me from the warm touch of the sun while I'm basking in its tepidity. Take me, I mumbled. I'm tired. While coldness on my feet tells me I should shake and knock on some texture of wood so that it doesn't come true, the line between wishing I'm no longer here and holding on to the hope of every empty space I inhale, is paper-thin-- thin as a paper slightly saturated by water that sometimes I wish can drown these fears away.