All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea. My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place, I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile, I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary. The day is coming when I fly off, but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes?
What is the soul? I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer, I could break out of this prison for drunks. I didn't come here of my own accord, and
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