Well, if I called the wrong number, why did you answer the phone ?

Who will write the story of 
what he could have been ?
That, if someone writes it,
will perhaps be the true history
of humanity.

What exists is the real world -
not us, just the world.
We are, in reality,
what doesn't exist.

I am who I failed to be.
We are all who we supposed ourselves.
Our reality is what we never attained.

What happened to that truth we had -
- the dream at the window of childhood ?
What happened to our certainty -
- the plans at the desk that followed ?

What happened to my reality,
that all I have is life ?

What happened to me,
I'm getting 70 in the next days,
that I'm just who exists ?
Or...

In my soul, and with some truth;
I feel in my imagination,
and with some justice:
Only 29...

What will remains.
I've will be forgotten.