PostScript:

Orphanage is one of my favourite place to wander – at most of the moments that I enjoyed. It seems to be a crystal palace, so delicate but fragile. I look at it and the snowflakes falling so still. I believe that London was this kind of perplexed place before it became a dazed metropolitan where everyone looks like orphans. As its exquisite, its sorrow, I found it was sadly fascinating.

In the city of foundling, I was standing at the edge of the train platform. Vertigo struck me and I turned into a nestling, so fledgling. When are we going to flutter in the air?

My tunes at that time was “Mysteries” by Beth Gibbons, what is romance for? Love, it is now frequently asserted , should be an illusion. It also ought to be a substance – a glimpse of dawn, a brief breeze, or a heat of blush? Under the bewitching azure sky love is perpetuation, for it is a fraud, for it is infinite.