in timeless beauty of that momentous evening, he plays me chopin's Nocturne (op.9 no.2, my favourite), while we savor away the pinot noir, watching the orange ball of flame sinking mysteriously into the horizon. with no foretelling, the night came and went. too fast indeed, no wonder they say time is nought but a mere illusion. like a mist, he vanishes right before my sight, and not a wisp of him was left.
when will he come back?
-jun.
