Dear Papa,

i wish that is not only an Amethyst rememberance, like our beloved Emily Dickinson's poem. Her poetry always awakes me, makes me recall the glooming day you leave.

There's a poem about a stopped clock: (figures) quivered out of decimale / into degreeless noon.

Sometimes i feel i'm living in a sort of degreeless moment. it is not a dream at all, and within it i even cannot see anything possible. Just like walking on the street with shining noon, but tired and blind.

"Neither the sun nor death can be looked at steadily." A Frenchman named La Rochefoucaued(1618-1680) once said.

Then i'll escape to the afternoon daydreams. The shadow of pendulum on the clock reflects a slant of light. Because of you, i can still feel warm in those darkest.

i miss you.



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