She removes something stuck on my face; maybe an eyelash fell from my eye. The air warms in my lungs, and the rest of my limbs freeze as I shiver, soaring like a white dove to an unspecified destination from the hands of brides.

I answer her question awkwardly that things are fine. She asks again: "Why do you feel cold?" I reply: "Not just cold, but also with pains I feel in the heart of my head as if it's being branded with fire on the left half of my body." Her lower lip shyly embraces her white teeth like wild mushrooms appearing on the ground after a thunderous night, her eyes constrict like a slowly evaporating lake, and her cheeks blush the color of roses. Yet, I continue: "My left half which never has a morning without pain for a love that combines hope, pain, smiling, and tears."