I don't know why I am writing this. But the rain is falling outside my window, and i don't have enough of smoke. I am in this strange city, alone in this room and still alone outside this house. And I want to go home, but there is no home to go to. And that's make me sad. So I play Vivaldi's Four Season in my cellphone, and write this. I don't usually listen to classic music, especially those kind which has no lyrics. I am not that type of person. I like words with rhythm. Poetry being sung. But I am sad, and Vivaldi's reminds me that this is going to change. As his song shift from winter to spring, I know that this sad will end and happy will come. That makes me relieve. I always like listening to music. But I couldn't sing a note. I always like the idea of love. But I couldn't handle a hand. My hand sweats a lot. I thought by this age, I am already certain what love is. I should know by now that when she appears before me I would recognize her. I would have hugged her, if I did. But I didn't. And like in love, music is still strange to me. I don't know anything about both of them, but they make me hope for the better, and that's what important. So I play Vivaldi's Four Season again.