So endeth this chronicle.
It being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.
I like to go out at night, to ride along the street lights, to enjoy the cool wind that blow pass my face, and to feel the essence of silence. The familiar building, yet so unfamiliar with all the quiteness, peaceful…as if time has frozen still.
Friends can help you remember, rain can helps you forget.
The trip would have been better, If they didn’t kept whining every 15 mins or so…
Still, that’s one thing on the list done!