It's a city combing its hair in snow, what a sleepy city. Despite what has been said about its great glory, and that the evenings are as smooth as silk, her eyes are still damaged, and these brown birds are lost as an innocent soul in their small evenings. As a child, I remembered what was happening, the pain was pouring out like rain, dreams were buried under the absence. Wait a while, maybe it wants to tell you something, why don't you listen, why don't you care about the pain on your face, who will know? Who will find out? Is this pain does not end? Maybe it wants to ask you something, I see its corners shameful, leaves falling here and there, and snow pouring from it.