Because To Write, One Must Truly Suffer.

I Am Talking About Misery And All Of Its Implications.

There You'll Find The Place I Love Most In The World. The Place Where I Grew Thin From Dreaming. My Village, Rising From The Plain. Shaded With Trees And Leaves Like A Piggy Bank Filled With Memories. You'll See Why A Person Would Want To Live There Forever. Dawn, Morning, Mid-day, Night: All The Same, Except For The Changes In The Air. The Air Changes The Color Of Things There. And Life Whirs By As Quiet As A Murmur...the Pure Murmuring Of Life.

Nothing Can Last Forever. There Isn't Any Memory, No Matter How Intense, That Doesn't Fade Out At Last.

No One Knows Better Than I Do How Far Heaven Is, But I Also Know All The Shortcuts. The Secret Is To Die, When You Want To, And Not When He Proposes. Or Else To Force Him To Take You Before Your Time.

Because To Write, One Must Truly Suffer.