 So we start the second point, it is called the joy and we start releasing Arabic. The joy. Here we do not go to the forest. The forest comes to us and devours us. Whenever I go back to my house, I turn on the TV, I turn on the radio, I turn on all the lights, when things are being pushed to the ground, I turn on the lights until death comes. I see enemies in front of me. I turn on the lights, I see nothing, I am lost. When you need something warm to get closer to you from happiness, you do it for the benefit of our brothers, and you feel it, you hold your breath to every part of it, your face changes, your face becomes simple, and you feel your emotions, you feel the words in your mouth, you come out with a smile, you feel a little happy, and you hope for your existence, the world becomes filled with brothers and sisters, they become happy and happy at home, until the illness does not seem very bad. When I met her for the first time, she was with me, she loved the boat and the middle sea, and then she loved the sand, and when I met her for the last time, she was with me, she loved all of us. Here, my dear friends in this country, some people call you, although they call you, this is something I do not understand. Every evening, when I come home, I turn on all the lights, until the rays cut through to where the wound lies hidden. I turn them on, so that if death comes, I can see my enemy's face before me. I turn the lights on, but see nothing. Have I gone blind? In the evening, when you need something warm to bring joy closer, you roll a joint and light it. You draw the smoke into every aching part of you, and your mood improves. Your face relaxes, your muscles soften, the words in your mouth slacken and come out in a stupor, and you rejoice a little, reassured of your own presence. The world around you turns languid and marvellous. Your house is radiant now and full of joy. Even my neighbour, a French woman who's mentally ill, doesn't seem so bad anymore. When I first met her, she told me she loves Tangier and the Mediterranean. The next time, she said she loves Couscous, and the last time I saw her, she said she hates us all. Here, my dear friends in this country, some people, even though they're close to you, this is something I don't understand. Here, my dear friends, is the ability to wait for death. Here, my dear friends, some people call their lives to an end, just because they're wonderful and beautiful, and they don't care about happiness. And others don't care about living alone, so they die. In those distant countries, we die because war birds fly into the sky, they're scattered around, and the cities and villages are filled with delusions. There, people die because they're poor and hungry, because when they're sick, they don't care about their doctor, because they stay like this until they die. Here, my beloveds, are the places where we draw our last breaths without dying. Here, we fall in love and sometimes get married and celebrate with divorce. After 50, our friends disappear. I don't mean they die, they just disappear. And then depression comes and boredom too. Here, my beloveds, when I write a poem about love, the branches of the tree beside my house reach out to me and ask me to forget. Here, my beloveds, are the places where we draw our last breaths without dying. Here, my beloveds, some people put an end to their lives simply because they are wonderful and beautiful and they cannot bear the joy. Others cannot bear to live alone. They give up the ghosts as well. Here, people die because they're poor and hungry, because when they're sick, they don't care about their doctor, because they stay like this until they die. In some Arab countries, we die because warplanes are dropping bombs and filling the cities and villages with smoke as dark as coal. In my country, people die because they're poor and hungry, because no doctors will see them when they fall ill. They just stay that way until their bodies rot and die.