When life is as empty and dirty, dusty as this desert,
unpleasantness heaped on unpleasantness,
with not even one sincere smile,
not even one friendly conversation with a person for whom I have the least genuine affection,
death seems an attractive option,
an improvement.
--After all, what I am experiencing now
is nothing more than a living death.
A violent death would be more honest than this slow torture.
How can the inhabitants of this site of unending misery stand it?
Why do they not scream and pull out their hair?
Why do they not pound their fists and wail?
I find myself forced to draw the conclusion
that all of them died long ago,
and I am surrounded by their ghosts.
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