children’s laughter! Will You Love Me When It’s Available, Mom? As son as he entered, he
shouted with joy:-Mom, do you know what happened at home today?– Can’t you see? Talking on the
phone. Not everyone’s favorite thing was alike. Her mother loved the phone, her father the car.
Everything was delayed, when it

comes to the phone and the car… And when there were guests,
there was no room left for her….Where would she go? Her mother hung up the phone. The sound of
pots was coming from the kitchen. He ran to him: – Shall I help you? she said, putting on her cutest
self. His mother looked meaningfully: – No? Is there a mischief? Look, do not mess with yours. I’m so
tired anyway. What was it like to be tired? Sometimes, when she falls asleep with her toy in her

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hand, her grandmother slowly takes the toy from her hand: – ‘How tired baby boy is. Let the rose-
scented arms of sleep envelop you..’ and he would kiss his forehead. If the tiredness was to fall into a
sleep smelling of roses, why was his mother talking to him angrily.—Mom, when you are tired, you


fall into sleep-scented roses. That’s what my grandmother says.—Let me fall asleep so that the scent
of roses can’t be blamed. I’m dying of exhaustion. “Come let me hug you again!” I said. We hugged.
She hated that word. ‘I’m tired, because I’m tired, when I’m tired like this’….—Mother, don’t get
tired…—We’ll talk at dinner, my child. Things didn’t work out in the bank. I have to finish this before

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your father comes. Come on, play a little. You know, you’re getting tired… Well…. I’m getting tired of
playing too. I don’t know what to do?He knew what not to do, but grown-ups did not know what to
do at all. The lights went out suddenly. His mother began to grumble angrily.—There are no candles!
she rummaged through the cabinets.The boy lay on his back and thought of his grandmother’s
village. The way he told the story of the crazy rabbit in the light of the kerosene lamp. He brought up

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the reflection of the crazy rabbit on the wall. He made a rabbit’s head by raising his index fingers
together, like his grandmother, and said, “Look, crazy rabbit,” and wiggled his fingers. Passers-lights
of the car led to the rabbit on the wall. She rabbit got as free as she could. She spoke to the grass and
the birds. Then she got tired. The image on the wall disappeared with the opening of tiny palms. His
arm slowly hung down from the sofa.Then the lights came on. The woman realized that the child
never spoke. She rushed to the sofa suddenly. She had fallen asleep with her little knees drawn up to

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her stomach. She looked at the files on the table with disgust. An unquenchable regret filled her.
Fearing to wake her, she planted a kiss on her little forehead. The boy muttered with wide eyes, as if
waiting for a clue; A tune continues inside me that makes the sadness feel as if it is endless. The
longing for a passenger who has to travel to never-ending roads is such an old and long calendar that
there is no heart that would not get lost in their distance. I didn’t choose to get lost in those

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distances. While I was dreaming of getting to the level, the walls of the castles that could not be
instilled in my cinema were being built, I had not been aware of it. When I lit the lantern of those
distances deep in my heart, I saw the longing for years, its form stretching across my heart like the
dead body of a lover. It was deep, it was sharp, it was ruthless. He was at the same doors, on the
same roads, in the same story as me. Now those doors, those roads are far away; but I still have the
story. I was tracing longing in the story and I was exhausted. I didn’t know if I was going to get out of
that story on the roads that stretched out before me. I wanted to know what meaning that story
would gain one day. In the same story, my mother was preparing me for longing. However, behind
the songs he loved so much, the secret tears and the pale letters, he was still trying to learn. What
did my mother find in the songs of longing that she did not get tired of singing as if she was afraid to
forget, in the letters she read back and forth, in the past she could not break away from? There were
always touching memories that bound my mother to herself; What was this bond? One day came the
story of those words, which became my heart. That story that still remains with me carried my heart
to the bottom of his throne, and I could not lift my neck, which was bent in front of the throne of
that story. My mother and I kept chasing after the “your appointment is to such and sucheclarations,
after my father. I say we were blown away, because every notification of appointment would be a
sea breeze that turned our hearts upside down. My mother used to say, “I feel like anisland.”