I once bumped into an old friend we sat there and talked about how life drove us into madness and left us with pain I asked him furiously, why don't we get the joy instead of pain and the vain? the pleasure and euphoria of *******? the endless love of being absolutely insane? my friend looked at me and laughed hysterically, I recall then said to me my dearest, we're ******* writers we don't get the joy nor the pleasure in our existence we get that in our words, poems and memoirs but in reality we can only dream of that never ending phase