He was born into a poor, the poorest of families in a little village in Sicily. And after his chores, his dreadful, tiring chores, he’d walk into town and ask to ride the red bicycle. And when he rode it, he was the wealthiest man in the village.
I am so sorry, not sorry. your apologies are lackluster and hollow. there’s nothing sincere – no matter how many tears you shed. you can say all you want but there’s seems to be no regret in your voice. i hear it shutter and shake but make no mistake – those tremblings are insincere.