A person lives on temporary petty activities, he has no roots anywhere, no certainty anywhere, yet like a particle of light, he fearlessly moves from place to place, floating in the current of life. Sometimes, maybe even from time to time. He never covers the death-blue body of sorrow. In the lotus of happiness. He does not numb the pulse of joy by thinking about the deprivation, sorrow, and humiliation of life. He may love someone, but he does not build a house with them on a solid foundation. He has not understood the source of life, anything serious, and does not want to understand. Yet this addiction to living never ceases. The flowers of various experiences are woven into a garland of thread, like ?like the wind, like the addiction?.?