If art is the only important thing for now, so then I won't still be lingering. It's going backward but it's actually going forward, forward to the dream we've ever dreamt. Nothing we can foresee. But we have now. We don't have the whole other self. But we emerge. Space and distance, if detachment could really help. What if I doubt. All and all, I just want to believe. Believe in the eternity of the fragments, the tender lips, and the heart beat.