Some people complain there are too many people on earth, Some people complain about secret societies, Some people accuse others of not being able to wake up early. Almost all people complain about something.

All dust is the same dust. Temporarily separated To go peacefully And enjoy the eternal nap.

Everybody talks, but there is no conversation.

Wherever I go, I run into myself.

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

We measure everything by ourselves with almost a necessary conceit.

The farther away, the closer the home becomes.