I have a year,
I have a year in my head,
I have everything that I could ever wish for,
I have a year of things to do,
and I will be alone,
and little will be said,
little will be said,
somewhere out in the middle of nowhere,
somewhere far away,
somewhere in a more tranquil place,
without so many troubles,
so many troubles every day,
and a year of being alone and free to write,
will do wonders for my health,
and I will be saner than in the cities,
and in the villages where I used to dwell,
and happier with peace and the quiet instead,
instead of the hell of the chaos,
that rampages in the towns and in the cities every day,
and happier without the noises that bombard the eardrums,
from every angle, and at every volume,
and from which you cannot get away.