Women are of the worst commodities.
Such needed instruments in this turn about of events,
you make me feel terrible, you make me want to have sex, you make me do things I hate.
But in you, there is love, there is peace, there is assurance.
Triumph!
Emptiness.
How weak I am.
We are out of worse commodity.
Vile and concrete, we are truth.
We are only grass to be burned by the sun!

I should be honest, I am so easily distracted by the whim of the fragrant of a woman.
This is all rather useless.