I always see her passing by. In the midst of darkness, she is light. In my dead field of flowers, she brings life. I’ve been watching her for so long. It’s cruel; she shines like a trophy. It’s cruel, and I am cold and pale as paper. But I would live for her, and she doesn’t understand. Everything I do is trying to be hers. From all the dead flowers, I would make a garden for her. She would bloom and look at me. It’s the end… it’s my end… Dear, beautiful life. Her looking at me like this, even better. From the entire morgue, I would make a nursery for her. She would look at me and think I’m a fool. It’s the end… I don’t have her for myself… it’s my end… I don’t have her for myself…

You watch her from afar as always...