I realized on this noisy night that I can only live with the language of loss, with worn-out emotions and neutral thoughts, and with a cold feeling. I have become like a town with autumn and winter seasons. So why the rigidity and roughness in words, and why do tears resist me? Have I become a world of tragedies without knowing it? Is it now the fate of the sorrowful to cherish such gloomy traits? Thus, I was prepared from the start of that Sunday I was born to this Sunday night before its hated morning breaks.