I wish I could stop because of a pure land, even if just for a moment to rest. I look around, when the 28th spring comes; I know a secret at last: nightingale had nothing; its fate will always be forced to look for. However, the beloved land, There is not even a needle, allowing the small claws to stand above.
The vast night, Land that It is obsessed is more dangerous than poison.
Now it must understand, if it petite heart can still faintly beating: on the ground it lost everything, maybe it has a hope, only one: its world is in the sky.