The president drinks Coca-Cola, just like we do, says marketing. Oh, what a privilege.

It is painful to be a perfectionist,
Mistakes hurt me.

You talk to everyone, everyone in your heart,
But you’re not a god,
You’re just a woman sitting in a subway car, talking to herself.
You talk to Dionysus, asking him for a drink.
You go to the tobacco field, smoking a hookah there,
Because you like the smell of tobacco leaves.

You walk down the street, feeling the scent of lilacs,
Though it’s not spring.
People look at you, and you think you know them all.
You feel somatic touches,
It seems like the one you love has come to you and touched you.

You listen to the music, The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony.”
You feel an extreme, your taste receptors sharpen.
You feel love, elevated.

Do you love the coffee placed in the machine more, or the aroma that fills the room during the brewing process?

I want to live in a house where silence reigns,
to hear the echo of sounds drifting in from the yard.
To live like the beautiful tales written on the pages of a book,
to love like Juliet,
and to be able to die with her.
He will come in the evening, open the door,
we'll talk simply.
Our desires are the same,
don’t we all long for peace.

Sometimes, we don’t know
if we’re happy or unhappy,
confusion follows us
like a three-year-old child.

We get lost in the discovery of talent.
Maybe we’re good at dancing or knitting,
we write let’s try.
We might have even been a good pilot.

Who knows, who knows.

I met a thief and told him, "Leave my wallet." He left, but that day he probably lost the desire to steal.