which I feel when I lay alone on the grass, as hundreds pass by, and though the clouds are white and the sky is blue, the wind blows as if it were to be stormy. This world is a masterpiece, I can only think. This is not something which I think can be real.. I see nothing but solid color in the sky, and nothing on my eyelids at all. Dreams will take me, but their ill intentions pervade. I cannot sleep now. I have life to do. Reality is. To not 'face' it is to not realize this. It will be, and is to be only the better, when you know. Life is misery which we spend our lives making happy. It will not be. The action that life is is what I do. The misery of life is what I cannot. I can not play with my dead friend, and I cannot fly away. I can not fix the world's wars, but tomorrow, I will try, my own way.