he did nothing other than Scratch the earth sitting in a chair, his whole life was behind him, why is he now, at night to go to bed hoping the morning would not see him get up, but The next morning he was always ready to rise, until he saw her body below him, at that moment he stopped thinking, and finally what was the being whose life was what it was No one can say what this has to be served is the case with many people, the whole world, the human serves no purpose, a life to talk about everything and anything, to suffer a life, a life to blow, nothing remains of a lifetime of memories in the minds of the immediate family, articles in newspapers for famous people, and that's burial in the cold It is no longer breathing, the dream stops, the real imposes its immutable law, a dust in the eye, you become dust, the body does not stand up to eternal boredom, it fades once it does not say what he wants or what he does not, silence is closed