I am getting up very very early, super-early, like at 4 am or 5 am, then standing in the dark room, naked, with socks only, until the first sunshine rushed through blind.

This is life, you know. Without any excitment or sadness, just empty, empty room with empty chair, empty bed and empty heart. All the frames on the wall used to hang painting now suddently become hollow, all the color paper decorating the ciling turn to be black and white, all my dreams, if I remember any, are proved to be jokes and tears, all the past and memory fade, flowing away, after my 40th birthday.

It is silent, nobody can hear cricekt or grosshopper singing, or maybe they never did. Street lights are dark, even they can not stand forever, so am I. I feel tired, in this cold dark morning, touching the frozen floor through my only socks. That must be humilated, so I hope this is a dream. But it is not. In seconds the sun will rise, she will find me and then penetrate my skin, wreck my feeling. Do you know what is ironic? I must face her with a smile, which is the only thing I have, and whisper softly:

“Good Morning.”