The busy crowd of people escaping from themselves on the roads. I yearn to commit happiness every day. Or, go someplace too far off 

So that only my dreams and these sentimental imaginations would remain with me 

And may get a long relief of life, of imagination. I have been curious because inside me with any answer. Bit by bit, I am getting mantled in every minute. I could not have the correspondence with my friend in an easy way, so the relationship that we had from the very first days of youth now has ended up to be exchanged with these lazy days.

Actually, she constantly put down such dry and frightening words in her letter, and a long silence drops down in my circumference. A long void feeling falls upon me and being able to tolerate 

I pass off to befriend with the dust of the road. The ceaseless line of motors and the noises of a pack of frustrated people keeps teasing at me. I continue taking the air, and at the walls, I try to search the meaning of her. To feel belief towards myself might be my strength. I am seeking to find destination for her. That's the reason, there is similarity between me and a crow in the cloud.

I know, she has said that there are varieties of purposes life. Of course, knowing my feeling she has shown the reality, though in this long period of years to herself remained disputable in the preserve category. And I feel she will escape from these in the same way from where a definite journey of life gets to an end. The course then the sentimental days may begin and as those past days, we shall cause to spend four long years separately, on one's own.

Sometimes I wish I would finish off at once all these opportunist situations, selfish thought, and the absurdity of life, but the restraint is in luck and in feeling too. The days are being lived inside this room doing nothing. All over there are frustrations, sadness and gloom.

My clean heart can't believe completely that she may distance from me, like this and stop writing. How long should I bear a sad life living in the ruined castle of imagination? These days, I am beginning to be afraid with the shadows of men and with the opportunistic thought of them. All over there are deceitful crowds, cheating and only vulture eyes, failure and disaster! Oh, what kind of painting is this of the great painter?

Those days were significant when we applied to spend long hours, usually talking about things like, struggle in life. She used to make clear within the few words about revolution, change, and economic problems. We used to forget the words of love there and the argumentation about an economic problem, stood strong in front us. Then after we have been sad and despair, we used to write poems about life, until the evening. In many parallel ways of life, many poems of our own might have been written, torn, burnt and thrown away too.

Not becoming able to write anything about her, about myself and about our friendship, and extending all the way turmoil in absurdity in these days, I have been exaggerated even with poems, for these might renew the wound.

I see birds flying up in the far distance, they have a definite destination. I had thought at that time while she had written, "friends always go for the things which are easy, neat, sweet, and beautiful. But one might never be satisfied only in the fulfillment. She continuously wants the same thing in various new forms. "Why? Possibly in that respect is no any definite borderline of easiness. Therefore, there is no definite definition of limitation to say how much is to be Ok for whom? Of course, definitely our lives are in remote, confusing and uncomfortable state, nevertheless, we are obliged to accept it.

While I am writing, my heart became eager to listen to those of mountain, hill and falls, and all the crying and happiness. And in that sentimental moment, despite there are many dissimilarities between us, I am throwing away to search similarities, where a story of our friendship could be written in the course of living and a bit more happiness could be found in the name of living.