maybe it is a little too late, a little too late to see, to recreate, to forgive and to forget, to mend mistakes , to hope for wonders. it is like an unfinished story that will keep you guessing forever, an unending tale of rise and fall, it is like the unexplained. because it is too late to complete the incomplete, to finish the unfinished ; and all that incompleteness induces is yet another spell of incompletion...every unfinished answer is a drag force that pulls the soul backward, every unfinished letter is a testimonial to unharboured thoughts, every incomplete sentence a lingering of words, every unshed tear a birth of new suppressions, every unending path a new journey and every unfinished poem a measure of infinity...