Wander in numerous street windows, glimpse at countless passers-by, I meditate on what role love plays to my life. Love past by, memory left behind, it is untouchable moonlight that vanished into darkness when I'm to grasp. Romance is a relay race, in which approaching brings anticipation that brings disappointment that brings a vicious circle of despair. But love seekers still transfer one's warmth into another's chest, and reflect next dream out of last mistake. Rings are exchanged, oaths are made, remembrance is buried, regret is whispered; we are all the same as each other.
Lovers suffer many worries and fears, and learn to object being an innocent criminal of love. They burn out their youth in exchange of a mate. Beds of them are covered with roses which grow up as making love; only to sprawl to others' soil if over-occupied and spilled. Seasos change, affection mutates. If love is a non-stop train, then how many guts does it take to reach the destination of immortality?
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