It seems like falling into the deepest ocean, no matter how you struggle and rasp, your voice can only echo in this deep blue, unheard by anyone, just like that, falling until the long-lasting depth, when even memory ceases to exist.
Lorenzo slowly opened his eyes, before him lay a quiet street, people dressed in proper attire holding hands, smiles spreading, enjoying the tranquility under the moonlight.
Poets sing on the streets, playing melodies, telling tales of the dust-covered stories.
Feeling exhausted, Lorenzo turned his head, he was draped in a white robe, a silver cross hanging on his chest, the people around him cast respectful gazes his way.
"Sleeping here will give you a cold."
A voice sounded, a white-haired man sat beside him, with the weariness common to middle-aged men on his face, like Lorenzo, he was clad in church robes, albeit his were bright red, a person favored by the divine.
