I'm tired of being tired, Biricik. I lived not as much as I wanted, but as much as my pocket allowed. Abandoned cigarette butts know me. Untimely extinguishments, unfinished things are familiar with me.
People say the burden is too heavy. They pass by me, blowing past.
I have a world between pen and paper. None of the characters I create can embrace me. Does the man above feel this lonely too? While he cries behind the clouds, does he also gaze with his cat? Does his downstairs neighbor not hear him crying even when they are on vacation?
Why did we call him immortal, isn’t it a pity?
Biricik...
Shall we hug?
Comments