Chun Leach is experiencing the death of his daughter, writing exciting letters with memories of her

Regardless of the time it has passed, the actor feels a longing and deep pain for the girl's loss.

He's talking about his daughter through poetry and letters, which he's making public on social networks.

This is the next letter he addressed to his daughter, now dead:

The Booth of Memory Travels
In a corner of the world, I've been dancing and reading letters and memories, and I'm waiting for the Kangaroos to shape my path, like that dog who gave me money and pieces in my car, it was done two days before you died.
When I came to the hospital I told you, I told you these Sefay sisters last night were Heyeranda.
Forget the miracle car that saved your father!
Now when I'm back on the road, without the Qualla bear I promised, somewhere over the famous Los Angeles, I'm telling myself, it's almost like it was God's way out of the way so that the road didn't go, it's hard enough for the bad that would come, or it was really bad for you to be life, I don't know, but the way around me, in the grave.
We brought a village in the remote Melbour once I thought of Rina New Zyland to go hard for You to embrace, but Meda, that nightstar, who was looking at me with dirt, as if she wanted to say, "Don't get old, long way away for your life, and I followed my way down the way, without the Cualon and the Book, that town's a store, except for the rest of the house.
So in the window, I was folded like a pussy and a letter to you and started reading!
Don't write that you made us sad by letters.
People have experienced all the tragedy and pain they've always lost in spirits like you.
And I don't mourn, I don't mean anything, I don't mean anything, not my heart can't be embarrassed that we have to die in debt, but I'm just putting together the good memories we've had, so that when I lie down next to you, others can read and know what we've experienced for as long as we've lived.
I swear to you, I kept my pride from him, and I've never complained, and I've never bent, and I've said another word, "Buba like Bullbulacs." Like white wine!
My soul knew how much she suffered.
Baby.
They're telling me, how many fathers are without a son and how many mothers without a daughter, and their daughter is a part of us, and you are writing letters with oil, like you don't know that we're passing through the world.
You're crying.
In the false world, not your angel who has slept in the eternal world fills with flowers.
They say, and I keep quiet and thank you. I'm afraid they're getting excited, I don't want to tell you that I've raised my angel to have him for the world I see and enjoy, not beyond hills, Edens and Ylberash!
If I knew we were mortal, what is the eternal world of “entering” the rose that's fake!
Come on, Bubba. The pain is unique. Both memories and goods.
I want to undead my memories now, how much I feel about the cloth, that it's already late.
Remember how we left for Megjugorje?
One day, I decided to go to Egypt, to “Camp De La via”
And he didn't need my prayer again twice.
The next day, you touched Nina hard, that black pit bull you bought like a puppy when we went to Drella, the post-war Janari, who wasn't leaving you with. He laughed and said, y'all, from inside. And you used to spend a lot of trouble at night in your little club covered with rags, for fear the crop was freezing.
He knows it was too special for you. All day long you stayed inskya, and even the Dada Ayshe bread was dropped on the mountain. Your cheeks are red as ever. Rugov Ma! "And you used to lie with me and with me and with Zaqqum much. Letarty came and went. We spent the nights with Nasser and Mustaf late. January February we spent Isuf Alia, and Alberia and Zeka, in order to call Raza time Bubri.
You're wearing bellows late into the night, like those little girls when they're sick of the bride's shirt so she could never be a ba ba, never a bride with a sister-in-law.
Well, he knows white man who never gave me another round!
So on the last Friday of the late November 2006 Santore after we tried our luck on Stomball, once with Dardan Islam twice alone, at night and peting Nino, you got homesicked and hugged with Gala, the Latin midwife, we took a bus ride to Novi Pazar.
Now I'm telling you, even though I played my father hard, I pretty much jumped when I got to the border with the Bosna Serpska Kraine, we had fake passports, bought money, and you know it.
You were kind of sleepy and the police suspected too much and put us in their cabin.
Remember how I cheated on the suit?
I told them, this young artist, Bata Zivonovic cut his hair.
How? Our best artist? Where do you know my sister?
Because we're artists and we have colleagues.
Go, they told us, and I'll shake your shirt and use it, and I'll get in.
In Sarajevo, I found the connection to Mostar, and from there a Croat with his car took us to Medjugoria, even the rented room found us all close to “Campo de La Vita” for 100 euros, that all the money I had had. The next day I called Albert and Lula: or don't give me a break because I haven't seen them, and they never wanted me to.
Poor Albert left you with 2,000 francs.
Well, my Bubba, how happy you were those days. You used to get up early to go to Communism, and I killed the day I walked and miles through the bushes, a road that led up to the Neretva River, and from those hills I looked down Mostar.
Now, you know, I was crying and crying out of stuff that I didn't know how my heart was buttoned in the bushes.
I went by bus to Mostar and boarded their famous bridge, where a lot of years ago, Saber Fyzulah had coffee. There I took pictures of the remembrance, and there I wrote that poem about You.
” Travel to hopes”
And how many miles I've made with your belly I've spared your little money and waited for dinner with you, Bubba.
That Croatian we slept with, he had a little rabbit farm and you had fun with them, and when he cut them off, his father's mother was fed up with a pity.
Bubbe,
Remember the Great Lady Hill.
That's what we saw when Miss Mary resurfaced. I said I was lying, and you believed them, and how many months of rosary and cross bees.
How many times have we prayed for Jesus' September for your health, Bubba? Hala we have the stone we have taken to bring us luck, to the hill of the Great Lady. I was still watching your books, along with the rosaries you fucked with those community bitches.
And I was very disappointed when they told us that you have to go to Croatia, beyond Zagreb, in Verbovec, that we put your daughter there, and that you were happy and asked why?
Oh, my God, I said, do you know that we hardly cross borders with the passports and humps!
We were held two hours at Bjelina, and only after they spoke to Camp gave us permission to continue. Good thing the bus's waiting for us, that the girl for us would be.
That Zagreb night will remain the saddest one in my life.
There was fog on the ground, and you looked for it at Mecdonalc, and I was like a m'u orientua, and we had very little for the last bus to vbovec. But I mean, I didn't ruin it that night, so with that little money I had, I called the cab and we went. You were his or so fond of him, I don't know, but three times you ate a baby.
When we hit the streets with a 10-euro camera I photographed you for memory and we took our way to the last hope. You put up that big cup of jars that you bought in Egypt.
“Camp De La via”
The embrace of the thuputha. I advised you how many months. I was full of oil, and I would cry in front of you. A strong father had to be a father, and his heart had to be crushed. I left you at the mercy of a Croatian girl who said:
Her “angel “as long as this gets here, and I got them exhausted I got a room somewhere in a hotel.
Now when you drop me, and you don't touch, I'm telling you, when you break up and go out on town, I'm walking your way with a tear. And I said to myself, "This is Bubba's with Nate!
The next day I took the road to Skopje, and when I reached out in Pristina, I hugged Galica and cried together and when I calmed down I said, "How the hell they stop at Megjugorje, how good it was. Well, that sounded pretty bad.
And it turned out that way. After five days I was called: Your daughter can't be without you, so we're starting for Pristina”
You came back by bus, and your hopes broke with our roads.
Baby, I never told you. While I was shooting that series “Here's Ce Gevara” for a Croatian Television in Zagreb, I prayed to a baker from Hasi to take me to Vrbovec, the place where you made them five nights.
It was rainy day, and Hasyan hini nakaf, and I went daggers and cried out for me and you. When I came back, asked why are you crying? But I didn't tell him that I wanted to keep the goods of that memory to myself!