When I was little, I used to dream of finding a person who could understand me and love me. I used to feel lonely, incomplete. I was always looking for something, or someone, as if I were missing a piece of my soul. As if I had lost something valuable a long time back. I was always looking far away, looking for someone. I used to write messages on stones, hoping I’d be found. Found by someone. Sometimes I’d sit by the window, watching the soap bubbles fly away, hoping they wouldn’t pop straight away so they could reach that someone. I loved to think there was actually someone, somewhere, willing to meet me and get to know me. We could have met at a book store or a café. At some train station, on the track number 2. Maybe we’d have recognized eachother at first glance. ”Hi, I’ve finally found you and now I don’t want to let you go. I want to talk to you about the songs playing on the radio, about all the lame movies I saw in theaters, about those times in which I’ve been hurt and abandoned. I’ve been hurt too, you know? It hasn’t been easy for me to find you, it hasn’t been easy for me to live without knowing you. I would never have wanted to let you feel lonely, I’ve been really lonely too. Now let’s get to know eachother, let’s talk about all the romances we’ve had and the inexistent ones, about all the wasted words and those not yet used. I want to talk to you until my throat gets dry. And even if I felt really tired because of a stressing day, I’d still spend time with you, stifling yawns. Because I’ve left you alone too many times, and you don’t deserve emptiness and silence, you only deserve the best things in life.” If only that someone had existed… Even without knowing him face or him name I would have recognized him, because he wouldn’t have looked away. And I’d really have wanted that someone to be you.