When one paints, one loves in a different way. Often, I see him from the inside, or in the faces of others. I say to myself that if I still think of him, then perhaps he still thinks of me.
Tenderly heartbreaking... and real, that you don’t always get to escape in the end, nor is poetic justice always around. You simply live on, the way he walked all night in the stars, and the dusk turned out gray. @资料馆