“But, it’s not fair.

“But, it’s not fair. I.. I never had my chance. It’s not fair!”

“You’re right.”

“What can we do? How do I regain my chance?”

“You can’t.”

“Who am I, but a humble servant of the west-blown winds. How may I challenge the aristocracy of this town? By never buying but a penny’s worth of their goods, from me they’ve still made a killing. What smoothened texture the air holds when I reside in clouds face-leveled by their origin; perhaps all is as by day found to be, perfectly fine. What night brings more than what was left to bed when gone dreaming? None. None besides the night of storm, when deals of death lay struck or striking, or tense night of concept’s mass. What madness was I speaking hence?”

“You needn’t worry.”

“Ciao.”