I would like to believe that death is not the end of the road. I would like to believe that one day, when I?d be tired for such a log trip I would reach you. And maybe you?ll take care of me. I didn?t have the chance to take care of you. Not even to say goodbye. But you came to me anyway. It was not a dream. You were really there on that passing corridor where you still stay, peaceful, with those big eyes and lips red as a poppy. There?re so many people around you, like in a railway station with only one train and one-way destination. Nobody comes. Everybody leaves. If I could only know that you will save an empty chair for me, I would let you go? and I will come later. Much later. I would like to believe that it was not me that had written your life wrong.