You built my quiet little world, walled up tightly all the exits to the light, as do termites. You're curled up, wrapped himself in his well-being narrow-minded, in stagnant habits, a musty provincial way, you raised this wretched stronghold and refuge from the wind, from the surf and the stars. You do not want to bother the great challenges you, and so a lot of sweat worth it to forget that you - man. No, you're not a
windows xp optimizer resident of the planet, rushing into the space, do not pose the questions to which no answer - you simply philistine. No time has not grabbed you and did not hold, but now it's too late. Clay from which you slepleno, dried and hardened, and nothing on earth will not be able to awaken in you sleeping musician or poet, or astronomer who perhaps lived in you sometime.