The More I Suffer, The More I

Sometimes The Memory Of Happiness Cannot Stay True Because It Ended Unhappily.

When An Airplane's Engines Fail, It Is Not The End Of The Flight.

I Asked Her About Life, And It Was As If She Rummaged Around In A Dusty Chest To Get Me The Answers.

It Wasn't That I Forgot Hanna. But At A Certain Point The Memory Of Her Stopped Accompanying Me Wherever I Went. She Stayed Behind, The Way A City Stays Behind As A Train Pulls Out Of The Station. It's There, Somewhere Behind You, And You Could Go Back And Make Sure Of It. But Why Should You?

I Thought That If The Right Time Gets Missed, If One Has Refused Or Been Refused Something For Too Long, It's Too Late, Even If It Is Finally Tackled With Energy And Received With Joy. Or Is There No Such Thing As "too Late"? Is There Only "late," And Is "late" Always Better Than "never"? I Don't Know.