There Comes A Day When, For Someone

Certainly, To Have A Woman Who Waits At Home For You, Who Will Sleep With You, Gives A Warm Feeling Like Having Something You Must Say; It Makes You Glow, Keeps You Company, Helps You To Live.

The World, The Future, Is Now Within You As Your Past, As Experience, Skill In Technique, And The Rich, Everlasting Mystery Is Found To Be Childish You That, At The Time, You Made No Effort To Possess.

You Need A Village, If Only For The Pleasure Of Leaving It. A Village Means That You Are Not Alone, Knowing That In The People, The Trees, The Earth, There Is Something That Belongs To You, Waiting For You When You Are Not There.

The Art Of Living Is The Art Of Knowing How To Believe Lies.

Nowadays, Suicide Is Just A Way Of Disappearing. It Is Carried Out Timidly, Quietly, And Falls Flat. It Is No Longer An Action, Only A Submission.