As my bus passed by the apartment in which I once lived, I saw the new person, the writer, standing on the balcony and looking down on the street, looking, without seeing, for even though from my location I couldn't see his eyes, I saw the emptiness on his face, the emptiness of a person who existed without living, who looked without seeing, who found no significance in his surroundings and no meaning in life and thus took no interest in anything, who was being exiled from his country and staying in a place where the sad tone of the word "exile" was even more emphasised. And my bus passed. I was going. He stayed. And at that instant I thought, soon, I would go and he would stay.