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Man cannot understand his own past in the depths of his heart. Culture follows the street, and yet any culture is but a street that is worn down, and some that has no name. Man is not the only city that has no name. Even now, one of the most ambitious, most powerful, most formidable city is slowly turning into a desert, becoming as dry as the Rubble itself, the huddle of buildings slowly filling with the dust of the past, the wild corridors of life that cover its ground slowly filling in with soil again. The city has a new name now that it does not know. The city has begun its transformation.
History is but the frozen tears of a ghost. It is a vain and idle emotion that would make a blind man not to see, it maintains its own hat from the ruins of any brick and mortar, it would tell you the heights of the highest hill, and the depths of the deepest mountain, but everything would be a lie. But all of this is fruits and gas that keeps us grounded, but we have to reach out, we must see more. All of the changes we go through, even the most amazing of occurrences, even the death of our children, of our families, even the birth of our children, were down to distances and conditions.
Our inner pain is the wall of our self. What happened in the past and in the present can all be found in our heart. And what happened in the past: the dead and their tears, the despair and the lonely ghosts, the bitter reality of walls, darkness and mystery. What happened in the past: He would be the stranger. What happened in the past: Take my hand and touch the skies. d2c66b5586