I love you. I don't remember much of that, just a few memories kidnapped inside my mind, making me doubt about the details. I try hard, with an admirable effort, the essence of my roots. When I die, nobody will understand my will. If perfection is my utopia of perfection itself, nobody will understand such subjective words, as you probably won't understand this. History repeating, oh I'm about to cry. So sure, so fucking pure at the moment. When you grow up, do call me, my art form is here ready for you. Here, laid back... becoming.