Let's get out of here, let's find a new career. You'll be famous and I'll... disappear.

I... feel like garbage.

Frustrated by not being recognized by your dauntless eyes, suffring deeply the consequences of making stupid, sudden decisions.

Lied down in my room, I realiced that I don't have enough time for making it happen. The hurry of growing up is now the opposite. Besides, I don't want you to grow older... You'll start needing something beyond my capacity and goals... You'd want a woman, a marriage, a stablished 'family'... A sense of community made by yourself, something just right. A perfect life.

No matter how much I hurry, you'll always be one step ahead.

Realizing we're running out of time, sadness spreads throughout all my body. There's no encounter point. we'll never get together as a unit. We're on different roads... and, again, I'm in the disjunction of forcing the bareer that separates us, or turning aside and accelerate faster, and faster, 'till I ... disappear.

I erase myself again.