Blissful days had exited me, you and your beautiful ppls followed to a land of bountiful nostalgia. When nostalgia appeals to be the only foreign you love, it is that foreignness of you I am obsessed with. Sparks, energy and laughter underneath, I am left with a view from behind. I don’t know how to speak when not in poem, embarrassment always come right in place, shaming the ant itself for crossing the room too loud.