I hold myself guilty of letting guilt crawl into my thoughts and hide your persisting beautiful image. At those few moments when I beat my fear, I see you in those first red rays of the sun at dawn, in the raging waves of a deep blue sea. In that hopeful and sharp look of a child, in that only place where I can see an unquestionable truth. I see you in my mind, gazing at me, with that all-secure, from-all protecting look. If I ever close my mind in fear again, rest your eyes in mine, so that it opens.

Note: Some of the sentences are highly affected by already published books. In particular, *Invitation to a Beheading* by Vladimir Nabokov, and *1984* by George Orewell.