There’s no recipe, to endure the trials. Go back upstream the course of the rivers, when tragedies rain down. There’s no recipe, to take in the dramas. Cross the seas, rowing, when horror is what makes you feel drawn in. There’s no recipe, when you didn’t have one either. Nobody warned you—you fought as hard as you could. There’s no recipe, when hell offers you a hand. Giving up is human; the future is far away. But you found yourself singing, not even by choice. Like with every fall, every time—that’s imposed on you.