I probably love you differently. Not exactly as you imagined. But I'm like that and...that's how I love it. Quieter. Deeper. To oblivion. And, I won't be where I am, when I will serve you some deep dramas. I just keep everything in my heart. It's love, you know...we don't know. And somehow, it's silly of me to prove it with the meaningless ostentation, which is colorful on the outside, and empty on the inside. For me, love is...sacred. And the other is wind and fog... It blooms like crazy, then it blooms... And I don't think it's love. Love is the thing that lasts even when spring passes, even when the colorful flowers lie quietly dead in the ground. Love remains. And it shines on them. And no, I'm not waiting for you to understand me. I have known for a long time that we are not alike--- different people from different worlds. And it's still supposed to be love...And it's different...