Nobody wants to write or talk about a weak story hidden by a necrophile trying to sleep under the unplastered bridge you could never dare to pass by alone while you are still struggling with the simply stolen flowers smelling nothing at all. Maybe it is a kind of respectful golden brown leaf indeed which can’t decide to fall down or scatter around. It is just like the fluttering of hungry and unsecure people who can’t read or write. So; “Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that makes flowers grow, not thunder”.