Passion being daughter of affection is mother of frustration, abstinence from arid lands, creation of an unexpected explosion; where love is absence of morphine.If competition wasn’t a cliché, if complicity wasn’t an enemy, if living together wasn’t convenient, if being a burden wasn’t a bother, but something important to understand, if the interest wasn’t ephemeral, but eternal until mortality, if the union of the bodies wasn’t sex, but reincarnation of themselves in the other sex, if we considered our five senses more as a simplicity in the ordinary complexity rather than a community property, if help was real, if laugh wasn’t a general malaise sharing; maybe we would have been able to use our spirit to feed our soul. If we welcomed abandonment by a laughing lost loneliness, and overcome fear after hosting it on our humid face with a pale air; all of this would turn into a wise story. If you really wanted to be able to give some tip, you would know how to suffer, if you wanted to be able to provide support, you would know how to die to be able to breathe again. If all of this was realized then, utopia would be reality rather than a dream, if honesty was sincere then, hatred would turn into admiration; but in a world where the only comfort is represented by things subjected to a continuous denial depending on the sensitivity of the observer, amoeba of society; it would be almost blasphemous to think of understanding each other.