Once in my memory, an old man idled at this place. For what did a trace of blood appear on the bridge and when did it disappear? I am accustomed to the lonely streets.

Joy was forgotten, so was the pain. Only the memory of the news remained. At the end of the enthusiastic stories, only the bleached events remained. All the secret plots collapsed in the realm of the public living spaces, and the orientation of private life became to seek its own preference in the resonance of the public. All the focused, the forgotten, and the ignored constructed a story ruthlessly. It was not the character in the story who disintegrated the story, but exactly the fool who developed this story who brought about its disintegration.