By the Adriatic coast, lays a small and quiet italian village. The houses are old, but colorful. Every day is sunny, but ever sight of that village strikes me, like how a bayonet stabs a heart. I got married there, many nights ago, and there, i killed my first man. I pay my debts to him, and many others every day, but it's not enough. My heart aches more and more, every day. It screams and longs for a peace, which won't arrive. An image of him haunts me every night, and it is only one, among many others. I know, that I was a victim of war, and that I'm not alone, but it still hurts me so. Occasionally I find myself there. Almost always in the summer. It brings me a sort of, undescribable bliss to my soul. I know, that it is not healthy, but i keep combing back. Why? I don't know anymore. Buried there are the war victims, among them, lay buried my wife. I leave them all flowers, once every week. My mind want's to see this as a payment for my sins, but my heart knows, that it is not enough, and that it never will.
