When we were young, you and I, the nights were much longer than they tend to be now. Same can be said about the days too. I forgot how many days we spent to sit on the balcony, at yours or at mine or at someone else’s watching how the day disappeared. Is there any promise in the last light of the day? Behind my balcony, two cypresses stood close to wall made of old, very old stones. They looked black all day, but when the light changed in this particular hour, at the last hour of daylight, the cypresses shimmered green. We looked at the clouds, we wished they would take us with them. Only to start-up somewhere else, all our sentences began like that or sounded similar. Sooner or later, this was for sure, we would leave not only the balcony, but leave and leave again. When the night fell, everything around us was pitch-patch black, but we just sat upon the balcony, this one or that and it was if no one ever asked:“ What time is it, now?“ When we were young, you and I, we were neither dead nor alive, we just waited for one or another thing to appear, were we simply there? Sometimes we could hear a dog bark from far away, or a neighbor shouted loudly, but we didn’t even made an attempt to listen, only then within the very last hour of the day, it seemed we could be able to breathe, too. In and out, and we did, I breathed you in and you breathed me out and the night looked at us kindly. Let others be busy, the night said, making appointments, coming home late from dates full of regret, the night glazed at our balcony door, where we sat, you and I, when were young, so many years ago, from now.