Around me people are dancing. And their moves are characterized by despair, longing, hope and sorrow. I am muttered by their courage, and also by their suffering. But it is a dance and I cannot and must not interfere. I must respect their choice of moves, no matter how much it torments me. Still, I hold on to the most impressive of them: he gently caresses her cheek, looks her deep in the eyes, takes her hand and presses it onto his chest, where his heart beats so fast. He then brings her closer to him, he touches her forehead, playing with her fringe and before letting go of her hand (with tangible pain) he softly presses his lips on her left shoulder.