I want.

I want.

I want this.

I want that.

In a short life defined by nothing else but me,

I choose to define me by other things.

And life passes by.

And when me and death meet,

I suddenly have so many things to speak.

Things I missed.

Things I need.

Things I never dared dream.

Oh, I have lived so much under the Sun that I am tired.

But the Moon is up now.

And under light of darkness, I can see.

Of nothing of these things that I wanted.

Except me.