Perhaps one reason why there is the cinema is that it is not polite to respond directly to life, look carefully at the scenes, look at those Two: to him with his head buried in her lap, breathing warm, and she never idle fingers stroking the hair, skin and the rest of his family. I think if I envy. If envy. I guess sheltered by it, for its aroma, its heat, lost in my thoughts and maybe yours. Imagine her with that same light in his eyes, with that same attitude he now has no duty or demand anything, happy with their lives linked to mine. I imagine feeling it in the darkness of my dream and her feeling in these mountains that looks through the window of the train. No. I do not envy them. I admire them. I am encouraged by them, that love does not need his words, feeling like you know each other owners and owners of the time transferred. I do not envy. I'd rather watch them sneak in every even page of the newspaper and stress my total insignificance.
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