I know not what I have lost these days and how it actually begins.
Looking back to my childhood that I could no longer remember but through songs and games and old places full-filling with scent that had been there since years ago, it comes to my mind as a piece of silk stroked softly on my hair. It was absolute that my childhood was fascinating with all the colourful pictures pasting my laughers. But why couldn't I recall them anymore, on purpose or by mistake. If so much time had to slip away within fingers, then let them not be an obstacle between me and the past lives; if even I regret it for that is a lovely dream no one would like to be soothed, then take it not.
Where there is pride and egocentric straits in me must be my childhood as for always be protected and the sky always blue. Should I example once we were at the places again or should I left time to stay still and stale.
No, writing creates no glee to me already, I have to stop before falling into a sleep.
