We left the past to be past; the last few months seems to be a dream, and now when we wake up this also seems to dream of that dream. The tree that had to die for looking at the eye now a hole, (where) the electrician works on the pole to let the rooms lighted and the street to be halogened and signalled, besides it. The yellow flowers that it used bear have dissolved as the logs with some leaves now turning to the yellow. The moon wane its silvery wax on the blue sky–azure and glass. It will be hazed and gray as we return to the life we have to live; the one we had lived last few months was the imposed superficial as it was what we not wished for. Though when the holidays arrived and will arrive again we will look for this superficial life, and when it will end we will depress ourselves for not gettin’ the time to spend as we had wished for, and will look for another holiday. Now we have to run, run like a dog not aimlessly but with a aim and grudging on the life we have chosen and thinking to leave it. The mourning period is there as the cloud shrouds over, ominous chamber one. The loon called somewhere making the line blurred between to be and not to be. When we will sleep at night we will dream again and when we will wake from that dream we will again travel to the land where for us waiting is happening.