My loneliness made me feel the length of nights,
and my conscience made me notice their gloominess,
and in a night as long and gloomy as tonight, I find myself surrounded by the most hideous of memories.
Was I good until I made mistakes, or were those mistakes simply an expression of a deficiency that was always within me?
Should I hope that I would enjoy the sunlight tomorrow?
Or should I fear that it would make my inherent flaws more visible to me and to everyone?