Nowhere is the place where butteflies go and amend their memories. Composed by colors, whispering memories looking for bright senses. They seem so far away from reality, pleasure exist and is not conteined in jars.
My dearest heart, I’m now at a very pleasant window looking a beautiful pretty memory country, with a very greatful sea. The morning is very sunny and I don’t know how can I explain my freedom and how elastic my spirit might be, but pleasure of mine is having memories of you do not weight upon me. Asking my love where in you not to be cruel and not sharing the senses memories and asking yourself how it would be, being unfair or fair. For myself, I don’t know how to express my devotion of you, and the lightness that comes to the dark.
All I only wish we were butterflies, and live by three or seven days, such rich days with you I would feel more delighted than fifty coming years that could never contained that unique bright.