A small quake in the legs prevented him from moving, the world had stopped in the middle of the street. It looked at the roses of the garden with a pious sheen in the eyes. " Perhaps they were white in a distant time, the blood of the wounds they have dyed them" It turned away at the end of its mind the guilty thoughts, the red one so loudly from the petals snatched with the breeze, they attracted attention of him. The winter was approaching slowly and they would take them in silence. With a painful luck, he got up. With its sad steps it lowered the street with the moonlight lighting him. A sigh to the air, the heart being torn to pieces. It was breaking little by little, absorbing the pain in a sour flavor. It bit the commissure of its lips, trying to cut the sticker slags that were slipping for its cheeks. "I am Bobby, I am eighteen years old. They diagnosed me been …: What is Kim Habin of this going to say? This illness will eat me of little without being able to control it, will take me … I was killing myself"