She was writing a story here which she wanted to tell the world...

She was talking to herself here because no one was there to hear her words...

she was painting her dreams here because no one was here to judge her...

She was smoking up a weed here because she wanted to fly in a colors of her own imagination... One day i have heard a new tune on guitar chords and her faded face in a smoke all around.
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After that I have never seen her here but in a breeze of prayer flags, in a music of wind charm, In a softness of dream catcher, in a waves of mountains i often feel her presence. Truly, Mountain has many stories to tell.