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You live your life, walk around, say hello, look into the eyes of other people's passers-by, with clouds floating in their eyes. And then, sometimes, one of them will open his soul to you like a cloth cloak... And there is so much longing and love, so much hopelessness and faith, so much pain and self-denial that something in your own chest will shadow, tear, and most importantly, not heal... Paper, pen - and someone else's fate in black and white. And the wound is already scarring. Only a spot remains under the scab. It's good that at least it's white...