It is no longer the same. Something just clicks from within and you could match the similarities in frames. It did not go well with your fantasy. Maybe I am the ghost that lingers on your page, but what difference will it make in knowing? I have nothing for you to take nor give.

How long can I travel like this? Empty trains on cold mornings, faces plastered on with little warmth.

That great urge to embrace you, the compassion to reach out to you to tell you... You are not permanent.