"To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring." SANTANAYA, George

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— ...Had you ever guessed how much life is that great? Without it, you would be already dead...

Clyde. Unlike the night that came before, Bart had an awful nightmare. It was awful because he sweated, yet he stood unmobile on that bed, numb of other pain that he felt on that same day. Besides the pain coming from the bottom of his feet, sand still pouring from between his toes, the blanket that used to be thick back at home has now become a tissue, or less than a piece of cloth to sneeze out the dirt from the nose. Awful was his dream, because Bart could feel it as well, even if he didn't wanted to see those things happening inside his head. First, Bart only dreamt of black, a lack of image that happens often in the head of those who dream. They all are meant to be forgotten, or just to be barely remembered; if there was something pleasant to Bart and his eyes, then that something went into that void, to never come back.

Alike Lenneth, since on these kinds of dreams, she would often appear on the thin air, if there's such thing as air in a dream. Bart still breathed, but less than he did back on that day, when those feets had to walk some miles. It was the task given to his to see if the enemy was approaching, but they all retreated, or never appeared, to be fair. That wasn't fair, because Bart was ready to put an spear into someone's, to see them bleed, scream... Black. There are no mountains, beaches, waterfalls, or even his own home... just black. At least, Bart was fortunately glad that Lenneth wasn't there. He never had any bad dreams with her. He didn't wanted those kinds of dreams to come to his sight. Black.

Then, the curtain opens. Up, down, turn around. Please don't let me hit the ground. Bart tore the darkness, with his own bleeding claws. He found himself in a room, maybe home, but nobody was there. Only that room, a table, chairs, all empty. Outside a window, rain felt backwards, and Bart could see a man, and gray snakes around his body, or so he saw, before he came to realise that those snakes were jutting out of that man, as some few Burmecians clapped. One of them, a woman and a child, looked alike his own mother, pregnant, and Clyde, maybe he was also there too. Mother, or some woman that looked like his own, lifted Clyde, or some other kid that looked like his own brother, from the ground he stood and gave him a kiss, not on the cheek, but a mouth kiss instead. If that was already a reason enough for Bart to wake up already, the more they clapped, more the snakes became angry, as they began to eat that man, who turned out to be an alexandrian cake. They all spited on that manure, before a carriage moved by a man with a chocobo's head came, with the Prince, and Sigurd, the persons inside looked alike them, or so those gold and silver armors wore told it so for Bart, who dissapeared from that place.

Thankfully? Maybe not.

Then I saw a mushroom head. I was born and I was dead. Black. Bart blinked, and he couldn't see nothing, but black. Then, suddenly, he was inside the Burmecian Palace. After his own father's funeral, he decided to stroll around that place, before a guard interrupted his with a spear, not allowing the little Bart to enter further into the royal grounds. Clyde was there, dressed alike a Royal Guard, smelling alike fish stew. His feet were soaked as if he took a bath before he came to be there, only him. Clyde, was he? He didn't even recognized his own brother, as that bastard made a little cut, enough to bleed a single finger of that child. The walls were so polished, alike a clear mirror... He's going to kill me! He's going to kill me! What Bart heard coming from the back of his was an adult's voice. It sounded alike his own father, he was a man with a beard, as saw on that wall, dirtied by the blood of Bart's finger. It was Gizamaluk, or what Bart imagined him to be like whenever he, as a child, had been told of his tale.

Kill him! Kill him! That Gizamaluk said, as Clyde came behind his, to slap a fish on his own brother, and its scales flaying the skin belonging to that face. Tastes like fish. Then, everything turned into black. Crimson. I'm gonna give my despair! I'm gonna give my despair! Red. Some sort of light came before Bart, lying on a dinner's table, Jack was sitting there, sticking his tongue out of the mouth, trying to lick his own ears, because daddy could. Bart had a pretty large tongue, and Jack was hungry. He pointed at the darkness, above his, where lizards tails had been hanging on some hooks. Jack is too short to reach them. You have a pretty yummy tongue there! Said a voice, belonging to an eyeless Burmecian, carrying on of a scalpel raised to shine before Bart, alike that light, and that skinny shape, of that figure, he didn't knew who he was, but at least, it wasn't Lenneth, since Bart couldn't see those eyes and strands.

Kiss the floor. Kiss the walls. Kiss the door. Turn again. That rat could even cut the thin air with that sharp blade, alike how Lenneth did moved that spear. He ended up cutting his own tail instead, who fell in the ground, as Jack came near that thing to suck it alike ramem, or a raw worm out of the ground, it was too dark to see. Gulp. Bart ate his own tongue, and sweated more than usual. That tail suddenly crawled away from Jack, like a gray maggot, digging holes into the ground, until it screamed. Bart, for some reason, still could close his eyes, and now he stinked. Some poppy flowers sprouted of that fertile ground, that pile of shit he stood into, naked, sweating, eating eggs, the rain being his own way of relief of that heat. Clyde's head could be seem floating into the stream of Kinneas, and that face of someone who sucked a fresh lemon as well. Run! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Run! Run!... Hi daddy. Bart was then grated by his own son, Jack, who, with a carrot on his hand, killed as many Basilisks as he could. Soon as Jack pointed to the last petrifier he took care of, a crow came to eat of that rotten flesh, then it died, as a lot of Burmecians stood on a row to drink of a soup being prepared on a black cauldron.

Crow! Crow! I hate them! I HATE THEM! Jack was hungry. Bart too. Daddy was naked, so do the King, but nobody cared about, since they didn't noticed of that awful scent, who disappeared as soon as that body had been washed by the rain and the scent brought by Bahamut. Prescott came before his, alike a Cleyran, but since Bart only knew about the female dancers of that settlement, Hyuuga was wearing a beautiful Cleyran dress instead. Jack laughed, as soon as Bart told him to be more respectful with that Cleyran. He stopped laughing, after seeing his daddy's face. They were the last ones to be in that row. A weevil crawled into Jack, whom that infant's hand grabbed and put on that mouth. But that bug wasn't enough for his stomach. His fingers looked alike sausages, but how could you hold of that Carrot if you don't have any fingers, or so Bart said to his. Awaiting... How strange. Lenneth wasn't there, Bart thought, but her helm was being wore above Jack's head. Dan became a member of the Onion Knights, so why can't I be a Carrot Knight? Jack replied, shedding a tear. What the hell is happening there? Bart thought.

Dead bees on a honey cake. Cheese with extra vermins. Fungus growing on a bread. Veal. Those were the foods given for the three when they reached to the end of the row. The only one who didn't ate anything was Jack. Wasn't he hungry. Bart, Hyuuga... anyone else ate with a single swallow. Lenneth... the child said, and then, paused. She... is... hungry. There was a hole on that helm, as usual. A single piece of cheese were put inside there. Soon, Bart saw a tombstone, standing near the one belonging to his own father. Here Lies... Eleanor Crescent? Her mother? What the... her mother is dead? Bart began to sweat, and to stink as well. Daddy, can you please hold her for me? Jack said, as he took that helm, a Dragoon's helm, out of his head, to grab a piece of cloth, dyed in crimson. It seemed like a meat wrapped by the local butcher, Bart thought, until he holded such thing with an only hand. It was so tiny, and it had a heart as well.

A heart? Bart could feel it, slightly moving, so did Jack, and its shivers. Frightened by the look of his eyes, Bart unwrapped that cloth, only to reveal such to be a doll, made of same cloth as well. No, that wasn't a doll. Could it be? Bart only saw its tail, a tail made of flesh. This ain't a doll. Less than an infant, wrapped around a red velvet, lied Lenneth, so tiny, alike a bean seed; without a mother, that thing, that being soon would die. Please, hold her near the chest, Jack said,´desperately shaking, enough to squeeze water out of his, alike a tree's leaves does, when shaken by the wind. She is beautiful, isn't she? Hyuuga asked, now wearing of Prescott's clothes. Close to his chest, Bart could feel himself warming up Lenneth, on a same way Jack did by putting her on his head. Ohhhnmnghn... A strange sound, alike a moan, could be heard.

Bart looked to 'Lenneth', and she made no such sound, or any kind of sound. With those 'eyes', dark globes alike a fish, she didn't even blinked, alike a doll. But a moan still could be heard, near them. Behind the wall, an Ironite, whom Jack killed, he was so proud of it, was still alive. A crow then came to eat of its flesh. The crow died, with a single meat taken to his mouth. Bart asked to Jack how did he killed that beast, whom Jack replied with poison. The tip of the Hruting carrot could be seem, green was the colour before it became brown by the red. A hunchback wearing of a black cloak came near same black crow, to take it with a hand. He was the same who gave those foods for all Burmecia. And now they wanted more. What about a dragon's soup? The cauldron, black as well, had been filled in by flesh once again. Everyone made a row once again. Like autumn leaves, like the rain pouring down, like Lenneth's mother, they all fell down, on a row like dominoes. The man, under that cloak, turned out to be an alexandrian, who only spoke a word. I'm going to show you... Black.

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♫David Bowie - Moss Garden♫

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— ...Hnng... Ohnngh... – on his bed, Bart sweated, moaned, shivered because of the cold coming from outside, yet no one could hear his. Except Prescott, who woke up and stood near that bed, sitting there as well. He awaited for Bart to do the same as his own eyes did. The look they gave to that man, however, couldn't be the same look Bart would be able to give to Prescott as well. Sweating, with the heat going away from his, alike same nightmare, Bart woke up.

— What an awful nightmare you just had – Prescott said, with his both arms close, fingers wrapping into each other. Bart, looking at the ceiling, still laying above that kind of pillow, above same kind of bed, heard those words. With his legs numb, he awaited to reply with some as well, but not before he grabbed some air to fill in his lungs.

— Huff... Huff... You don't even know the details... – Bart said, or tried to say more. The breathing overcame his words as a whole. He briefly looked to his leg, covered in white bandages, more than his own wounded arm, except that his arm didn't had such crimson pool in the middle, anymore. I had been bitten by an alexandrian Antlion, he thought, but since Prescott was there, and that tea as well, he had no worries. Lenneth may had some, but she and Jack will be alright...

— I do know. Painful, wasn't it? – Prescott asked, as if he knew what Bart dreamnt on such night. And what caused such nightmare to happen as well – I don't need such details, but it seems that you're worried about your fatherhood...

— What? – above his chest, Bart found his own blanket, messed up, yet it kinda resembled a wrapped cloth. He once holded of same cloth, where Jack used to lay while being holded by his father's arms. Such resemblence only seemed to be on his own mind, but since Prescott was here, he knew what that meant. Talk about the man who knew of Bart's own father, the once Major Brandford, so closely, even closer than mother.

— Don't worry. There is nothing on that cloth.

— Yes. There is nothing... Nothing but a shell – said Bart, as he lifted up his back, still sitting on that bed, naked. Prescott, as well. They both woke up, in the middle of the night, the beginnning of a new day, but all days seemed the same. Uncomfortable to be wore, those outfits, soon as the morning sun came from the horizon, once again, would be wore. And how much sweat comes when they are wore, underneath the sun, above the sand. But those were the least of Bart's worries – I don't know if Lenneth is alright. I don't even know how much Jack grew up during these days. I just want this to be over soon. Not me by any cost, but this mission, this battle, whatever is this. It's meaningless to keep standing in there, without doing anything, but hurting yourself. The enemy, if there is one, rarely comes out of nowhere, only to disappear into same. I don't even know for what reason we are fighting for...

— ...Your father also thought the same – Prescott, or Hyuuga, said. Bart didn't knew anymore how to adress his by, since he wore nothing, but the skin given to his – I also thought the same too. But see where I am? I bet those alexandrians do not even know why they went from those lands above to the desert below. They despise Burmecians, as much as we do with them. Despise enough to make us travel such long distances, only to kick each other to someone's death.

— But why would these alexandrians invade Cleyra, if they did nothing wrong?

— Nothing wrong, you say. Well, the Cleyrans had done something utterly wrong. Do you know what? They were born, Bart. That's a reason enough for an invasion – Prescott said, as he kept looking at the hollow, althought his body still layed inside that same tent.

— What? So it's because they're kind that the alexandrians despite them all? – Bart asked. He was about to fall asleep again, but not in the middle of a conversation, and a talk that seemed important to his, and Prescott as well. Both had been sharing of that same tent for what seemed to be a month, yet the only time that do mattered for them was the time to go home. But why would they go home, instead of protecting such? Hyuuga, still sitting on that bed, had two homes to shield, one who seemed to bear a threat that not even the sandstorm and the beasts who lie in that giant trunk could't counter.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

— It really doesn't. It's kind of irrational, as much as it is the whole of our fears. Look at me, Bart. Can you spot something out of me that distinguises me, a Cleyran, out of you, a 'geniune' Burmecian, besides the cloth? – Bart then looked to Prescott, or Hyuuga, he didn't knew how to direct to his, withouth excluding of a name. Maybe Mr. Highwind, but that sounded too formal, and they knew each other already; only the surface, but that didn't meant Bart needed to drown further into that person. Which cloth, if both wore nothing, but the skins, fur of same color that remained since they were born? Aesthetically, Prescott looked the same as Bart, althought the height and weight of both slightly varied, alike that flaxen hair, and there is also an orange ribbon tied on that tail. So, Bart had nothing else to say, but...

— I don't know. You look almost exactly as me.

— Yes, half of me does. Well, we Cleyrans are alike yours, Burmecians, because we are the same people, but with different beliefs. It's a fact that the ones who founded of a settlement above that tree trunk were Burmecians, who rejected of being such in 'nature'. Not only these people, followed by Aquinas, founded of such sect that later would become Cleyra because of the taste the Burmecians had, for a war, but the fear as well to be overcome by such war, to become 'war' as a whole. The only way to avoid such fate was to start where everything began, to cleanse the soul before it has been cleansed by blood.

— So, the alexandrians do not care if the Cleyrans reject of our traditions... they are still Burmecians to his?

— Yes. There are some of us that do not believe in a deity above or below us because our eyes never saw such thing, only our ears heard of such. The same for the rich ones that do not believe the poorest ones exist, under their tables, pillars that sustain of their foundation, and for women who can't even if they looked at themselves, without any mirror to fall into. For the alexandrian eyes, and the nature that surrounds both, A Burmecian is a Burmecian, no matter the place he calls by home. Althought we live on a settlement atop a trunk, the Cleyrans do not even share of a country, a Kingdom to be called our own, but a desert, a wasteland like this instead, once the same place our ancestors, all of them, were born.

— But, unlike many of our ancestors, the Cleyrans do not tolerate of same violence, right?

— Yes, they don't, until they become the same as before. We, and our culture, may have survived the test of time, even until now, but I do wish I had a God like you, Bart. Even when I became what I am in nature, a Burmecian like you do, I still feel that I am not a part of the whole; a whole, in clothes, and in general. Cleyrans do not believe in such God, like those who stood in the rain do. All we, I used so to believe as well, was that the sandstorm could protect us from the outside world, the Burmecian world. But, after all, we had been Burmecians all alongs; without the rain, without the Mist... They are Burmecians. Always had been, without Bahamut, or without any violence. Even the Cleyran history as a whole is sustained by the fact that we are the same of your kind, since the 'main' culture generally, often do impose of its people's history, rules and beliefs on others. Same for the alexandrians, and the wounds left by more than our claws.

— But they also left some wounds on us as well... – Bart said, looking at the same nowhere other than the Highwind's face. Prescott knew why and what wandered inside Bart's mind. One was a father, the other was a friend of his; They both had shared of moments with that same person. Taken away from both, and many more. Too young, they would say, or already late, a few would think. That was the Major Brandford, before his gray skin become the same as his tombstone. He had chosen of this same life. He knew the risks. One took a fair amount of time to believe in it so, while the other had spent the entire childhood without questioning of such things, until that youth was over, as he grew older, and colder.

— A body who had been let in a tiresome routine is easy to be dealt with, but a weary soul... remains weary. I still recall how much your father, felt tired on those times, and yet, he kept fighting, with more than a broken finger. Some would say he was stubborn, which I may had agreed, before I knew him. Younger than his, yet older than his own sons. I knew everyone there, besides the Major. I wasn't only a soldier, but a practician whose strenght was on the White Magic I've learned, thought such had been gone for a long time, in change of a spear, and a needle on the other hand, alongside some sedactives prepared to be drank as a tea – Prescott briefly stood quiet, as he began to cuddle, going fetal with his both feet and arms – if I... still had the knowledge of such Cleyran magic to heal that leg and bones of his, he would be there. Many lifes would, in this world.

— You may be right, Prescott, but I don't think you should keep blaming yourself. I also did the same many times, and yet, nothing changed.

— Nothing changed... When you look too long into the abyss made, the abyss looks back through you. And you start wondering which one fell deeper into each. War and its uncertainties, as a whole, are part of the lowest and darkest rift where a man could be fit into. Those who soon would become Cleyrans feared that such void left by the war, whom the Burmecians of that age appreciated, filled in their souls, as an entirety. Some would bet on progress instead of regress, but what we all do share of a singular desire is life to be lived on a way which leads to prosperity. Many ways lead to such, so these people had no other choice, but to go away further from their own selves, in order so to develop a new society, a small settlement with a hundred people, not before they made for themselves a god, a defense unit for their, let's say, territory. What sustains the sandstorm, besides their belief into such's strenght, is the Desert Star, the same crystal the founders of Cleyra took from Burmecia-

— And yet, another war had to happen for the ownership of such crystal to be possible... – Bart said, as soon as both stood quiet. One had the blankets to offer of some heat, comfort, while the other remained losing heat, althought that position had another effect on his. Security can be found in those claws, as much as insecurity can be found on those doubts.

— From the disorder, began the chaos; and from same chaos, began the order. As much as you can make an order, to put every adornment around a dinner table, you can create the contrary, in your head, or with these hands whom your thoughts are also tied with. The mess that is a dish, and the pieces of meat scaterred across the wooden surface, beyond the dish and its limits, it doesn't matter how much careful you had been, you'll always find yourself in a sort of turmoil. As if a crystal given by those alexandrians as a gift for your Kingdom wasn't a turmoil enough, it was the beginning of such. The Cleyrans believed that the crystal carried on a curse, same who had been inflicted into almost the entirety of Burmecia's population, resulting in many deaths. The power of the Desert Star also wasn't enough for the King itself to handle, so the Cleyrans demanded of the destruction of such, resulting in a civil outbreak, and we already know who won. As it turned out to be, same shard of crystal has now become the main source of the power of that sandstorm, whom they pray for their security.

— And do you still pray for the sandstorm?

— I don't. I may not share of any god to hear of my prayers, yet I still wish the safety of those whom I love. You must be one of those who do the same as well, althought Bahamut shall grant you of his strenght; same he did for your father, and I tried as well to find of his name in a way so I could find a relief for my failure, not as a Burmecian or a Cleyran, but just as a being – Bart looked at Prescott, Hyuuga, they were all mixed up. A same person with two names, and two homes. Whereas Cleyra is his homeland, Burmecia and its rain had washed away the smallest trace of sand belonging to his. The Highwind one didn't even shed a tear, but his words were enough to tear off that matroska skin.

What should I say, or ever think, Bart thought, and remained into such. He was tired, as much as the Prescott he didn't knew that much is, standing on that side of bed. Another one of those nights, Bart recalled when back at his home, unlike Lenneth; while his duty was already over, the one belonging to her wasn't. So late that the gray clouds turned into dim, unlike the pale of that face, same for those purple ones, hidden by the mess her hair usually became, and there was Jack, also a mess, crying because of such, with the only way found of his on such age to call others. The only word so far uttered from that mouth was 'Pa', or something alike that. When not crying, or speechless of any attempts of words, Jack usually would be feeded by a breast, soon he would be feeded by a spoon, gray alike Lenneth. Was that really a life to be lead, or a life demanded to be lived? If so, why both insisted to be there, to share of a same house, same bed, same son, even thought one wasn't even there, only on weekends that had been gone with an entire week of work, and duty that means work as well.

— ...This failure ain't only yours. To live in failure is something, but to accept it, to admit defeat, is another something. You can be called by coward, but as soon as you accept that you had become such, then it's over. Life as well, unless you've created of a personal goal, still there, not in ruins. Cleyra is still hanging on, even after these centuries, right? So, why don't you go make a visit there? I wish I could see my home again, even if it was for an only frame, and to be so near of it as well... I wish I could do many of the things I had done back at Burmecia, you see.

— Well, there are many things left for us to do. I wish I could do a thing, for both sides. I have been doing so much for Burmecia, yet it isn't enough. So much I had done that it became nothing. Everything, anything that means of my efforts flew away, like sawdust blew by the wind coming from many mouths. I have been sending cards to my family, telling them about the places I went, the people I knew like you, and also how much I miss them, as I try to express my feelings in words better than the way this face does – Prescott looked at Bart. So much alike his father, he thought. Yet, only one seemed to be there, alive. If it was the father, or the son, he didn't knew who. They were both, and not the same as well. Bart looked throught that face as well. There wasn't a void in there, only shadows, who persisted unlike that brief smirk, which denoted a sort of angst, yet a kind of happiness that could be found even on a child who had lost a tooth. But Prescott hade lose more than something who fell out of that mouth, besides the words.

— At least, you can tell for those you love what do you fell, and in return, they also hear you as well. It took some time for me to understand the words of father, of anyone else, because I was a child. I knew that father would be gone, but not forever since that day. They tried to ease my pain, but how could them, if they treated me as a child? All his riches were taken by the Kingdom aftewards the death... Just say that he is dead, don't make me believe that he would return, just let him lay in the ground. Those are the effects of words, such words into me. It took me time to speak something, because they all spoke to me, so much that I couldn't do nothing but listen, and keep listening, growing of fake hopes, fake expressions, and fake words. I don't know what father would say if he saw me like that...

— ..."Water ripples are known flow into the same surface, althought the directions taken may vary, yet a ripple remains the same"; that's what he would say, or already said to me. Same goes for you, and those whom he cared about. Bart... You may not be alike his image, but that you are his son, not only in blood, or in name, that sure seems right. I may be older than you, yet I am younger than your father was, and young as I do, I also had made of many mistakes, and good choices, some that I didn't even had the will, but others do. If by a mistake, a misunderstanding, or a chance to do the good, Cleyra has become the youngest of the places founded by the sentient beings of Gaia. It ain't even a nation because of how small and isolated it is, but no matter how small, a ripple remains the same, if they are in a puddle below in the rain, or an oasis in the middle of the desert. Restless are the Burmecians, and peaceful are the Cleyrans, and their good vibrations...

— So, why don't you go there go there to make a visit, Hyuuga? – said Bart, now reaching his hand near the Highwind's shoulders. With his numb foot still bandaged, he didn't payed that much attention for such limb, or even cared about both of them wearing nothing – I wish I could do the same as well, but not that the Cleyrans would deny of my entrance in there, they would never do such thing, but it's because we and Clyde... we are far more occupied than yours. Not that you had been doing too much for us, sure you had been, but this opportunity you have gotten is priceless. Besides being there for their protection, which we seems to have been fighting for as well, you can also meet your relatives, even your sister once again. As soon as this is over, I'll also do the same, but then, I wonder, still I do keep wondering how much time it'll take for that day to come.

— ...These alexandrians. They want to achieve the Desert Star at Cleyra, and take it back into their hands, Alexander's hands. He ain't even a god, but a knight who became a deity; only a few had of such fate. Seeing how much my homeland had become the main threat instead of a land so far from this Vube, you may be right. To do nothing only makes such aching inside us to increase, ain't I right?

— Of course. It may be a temporary relief, like the poppy tea I've drank to take out the pain of this leg, but a kind of relief is better than any worries followed of more worries, those that soon become of more despair to be dealt with. When we grown up, we start to understand of such things, that we need of the other to make us feel any better, without the demand of loud cries, thought it becomes harder to spot those in trouble. That's one of many reasons I married a Dragoon Knight, because they know who's in trouble, or who isn't. althought they may fail sometimes, but that's our nature after all – Bart said, so near of Prescott, Hyuuga, a male, he didn't cared. To feel so near of someone was enough; to talk as well, any better. With Clyde instead of father, less were the conversations alike that, and many were the pushs of those hands, who also cuddled of his, and lips who kissed of his as well.

— Well, Bart... I admire that we both had tried our best to solve of the problems by perchance. We may feel slight better than before, but it seems our worries still persist. They'll always be there, but as long as there are people in this world, whom we can be related, they disappear, for a short or a very long time, but it's better they do, if even for a single day – Prescott said, as he turned his head to Bart, looking at him as if he had done something wrong. Not wrong in a way it deserves a punishment, but something off that just happened, as told by the slight uplift frown on his face, and a smile as well. Hapiness? Not by a chance. That is the same smile that belongs to someone about to make fun of another – but, Bart... poor Bart. I've never thought that you would be that lonely. Sure, you can kiss me, right at the cheek of your choice, but not in the mouth. Not even a mother kisses her young children right in the mouth, you know.

— Heh... Come on, what are you talking about? You didn't even spit-

— And why would I? Besides wasting some source of liquid out of my mouth for a silly thing alike that, it may had been, it was an desperate act of yours, I understand it, but you sure kiss well. That may had been another reason of those about why Lenneth decided to be with you. And you aren't that of a random stranger to me anymore, but you are not enough an acquaintance of mine for so our relationship could harden like that. Sheesh... I'm sure that you'll miss me in the morning, but not even Clyde would do something like that. If that was an demonstration of how much I mean for you, fine, I'll accept it, as much as I had denied to spit. I'm half-Cleyran, you already know, so I'm not that kind who holds a grudge against others, but I'd rather let a fly go inside my mouth and chew one of its wings if you had put that tongue inside me. I'm glad that you didn't.

— It's not that I wanted to do it, but I had been planning to do it so. So many plans left for the future, and we don't know which one should we choose – Bart said, as soon as he began to lay his head above the pillow, and to blink more than he does, when looking at the sun, and its black spot. Prescott stood on his feet, as he stood and layed on his own bed.

— We already know the choices. Just don't be overhasty, like you did with those lips of yours. Good night.

— Same for you.

...