murmurs

Each of us has a story inside him... and he has never told it and will not do so... a story only its heroes know, and he only remembers its plot details with his memory, and he only recalls it with his longing or his misery... for it always does not accept half solutions... and is very far from the ash color... and either with or against... and what remains is just shells that are not classified or remembered... a story that embraces reality and imagination... silent, still, stripped of echo... woven to stay folded in the chest of secrecy... without a page... without a margin... without a title.