Twenty-first. Night. Monday. br Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. br Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why-- br made up the tale that love exists on earth. br br People believe it, maybe from laziness br or boredom, and live accordingly: br they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, br and when they sing, they sing about love. br br But the secret reveals itself to some, br and on them silence settles down... br I found this out by accident br and now it seems I'm sick all the time.