When our face will become a face, and not just another Janus-torso, a fiasco constantly grumbling with itself, perhaps the conscious lack raging within us will unexpectedly go out, will be tamed. In the vision-life, many small devils, tempting us to sin and deceit, rumble among the gears of the head, and because in human life there are rarely guides comparable to Virgil, who could faithfully accompany us on difficult days, - one way or another - sooner or later everyone must cross the conscious threshold of finitude for themselves. In our bodies and souls, a hundred thousand sorrows are already outdated, aging, not only from the history of decades, but what is still left of this whole mess; the angry, pure judgment still groans inside:

Reality also compares itself more and more to a grotesque, surreal dream-like cage according to the rules of a given Gluttony theory. In the lost Time, the conscious use of language, the bone-house system dreamed of as solid by the longing for romance, will gradually wear out. - Pondering the movables of ant-minutes, the selfless helping hands are becoming rarer and rarer. Exotic supermodel-shaped angels stare piercingly at spiky star-eyelashes; their fate - you may know - cannot be free, nor irresponsible, because they are all just cheap, petty puppets of a single game.

It would still be good to walk around the scale-steps of Being with giant strides surrounded by blood, in case the frail man could find lasting treasures among the piles of feces; Why do we have to keep moving into the fiascos of alienated tomorrows when a more real home-shelter could be waiting somewhere?! The seagulls of lack have been screaming overhead for some time now and we still don't know whether the melancholy silence nicknamed timeless will finally **** in the suspicion of everyday life, or is it just lazy indifference?!

In life - even if you wanted it to - there can be no more random, pleasant coincidences like some special, already agreed upon, ready-made surprise that among the hiding of cells and instincts, as in most biochemical continuities, the unconditionality of the hidden yeses could still be decoded, for which a relationship that is supposedly lasting, in principle, is still being built. One or two amino acids or DNA helixes still argue, conspire, and get into trouble; it is not even certain that the bombshell lady, whom we asked out on a date due to numerous rejections and persistent failures, will finally give in and, out of sheer neighborly kindness, nod and say yes to a pleasant evening of dinner.

The heavy stone flies at the end of the date, and hits the wounded, stupid, idiot, who believed that he was as valuable as anyone else. Evolution seems to have largely rejected flattery, courtship, and the usual etiquette and manners, the only possible measure of which is material well-being and a luxurious lifestyle.

Misfortune attacks from an ambush, it can sneak up on its defenseless, still hopeful victims; they stand in endless spiral lines with their selfish-greedy happiness recipes, because standing in a given line can rarely let go, because in a narrow space we are jostling and trampling uselessly like eternal whirlwinds.

As if we were just robbing each other, we would be robbing each other by trying to assert ourselves by trampling on anyone, in a world from which the appearance of tolerance and empathy has completely disappeared. Our inner, sinful destruction carries the fierce, Sisyphean weight of a huge self-destruction. The giant projector of the soul preserves more than a million memory slides, until Alzheimer's or dementia catches up with it. The ancient secrets of the Universe are already kneaded and coded into our instincts, and yet we often do not dare to safely open our vulnerable hearts.

It is also increasingly difficult to decipher the love of two unknown beats with its bitterly perverse Apocryphal symbols; because sooner or later everyone, increasingly sympathetic, just stumbles upon themselves. Our everyday annoyance is thus devoured by the tolerated patience, whose voice - at least - we do not listen to for the time being.

On the corridor of our dreams, we continuously distance ourselves from the fabric of real reality, of which we are still a part; in an instinctive vacuum, we shrink to endpoints, like the humming worms in the passages chewed by moles under the omniscient surfaces. We stare into the empty distance for a long time, since no one can yet see the certain interpretations. The silence of the outcast - fearful - although it does not teach us to live like a wise thinker, because it is becoming increasingly difficult to survive.

When somewhere, sometime, we think that the nature of our messy, confused things should be put in order, then all purposeful investments start to falter; greedy, snarling swarms of locusts would tear each other apart even further, because they no longer want to know the nature of the satisfied boundaries.

The World pours into us in rays from everywhere, which increasingly sets the consumer society as the only possible goal, while placing material well-being on the sole pedestal. But how much longer?! Every shell of loneliness is already fragmenting, since man cannot even trust himself, let alone others.

Even sweaty humanity already exists only in torn, fraying rags, or at most only if they can still pay for it. An invisible digital hand is pulling the current generation of cyber-donkeys on their pullable umbilical cords, who perhaps can no longer think in the long term, realistically, because a given phalanstery, mechanized intelligence, does it for them.

It is somewhat characteristic of all of us that we now deliberately disregard even the generally predictable laws of physics, just to get ahead with dignity and urgent immediacy; it could be a totally clogged traffic jam, where most drivers can drive to their heart's content, or a ten-hour professional, deadly conference, where most slave-riding boss-sharks only demand things for themselves. And the university is no longer about what it used to be, when fire-breathing prophets were used in common cultural matters to shake up an entire community.

It now seems more and more like everyone has made deals and contracts for their own benefit, and they have really made a deal!

The core of the storm scattered the honey drops of sunlight one by one yesterday; every broken, abandoned memory glittered in it. From the inner lightness, the slimy naked snail skin inside cannot be any more radiant or brighter, at most only stickier. The exhausted, tiring body still secretly tenses at both ends, because even the meaningless word is silent in speech. Why is it necessary now to deliberately and almost ostentatiously abandon the shores of common sense and then of thinking intellect, when nothing else is likely to prevail?!

Because even the dog cannot want to glide in fair chess games and sentence paths, it prefers to choose an easier, more bribeable bumpy path, the gaudy protrusions of Alamus intersections; even complex sentences of absurd conciseness are considered redundant. The unchainedness of hesitant fingers has also left them, because they have learned that only those who have been accomplished are allowed to be attached, while the simple average is also discarded.

Before the one for whom the answers to be decided were truly intended could even ask anything, the ancient answer unsettles; because the one who may know the most now has been a deliberate accomplice and silent for a long time. The narrowing, sluggish shred of emptiness grows deeper in the soul.

The turbulent river of Time is still beating, foaming, collapsing in on itself, kneading and walling its victim-members; at once challenging and provoking. The confused, confused outline of the uncertain future is becoming increasingly confused, barely visible. The driven night is still flying the bats of our own greedy wall, because the invisible Fate also writes its own rules of the game, its indecipherable symbols; the delicate mockery dictated by the horoscopes, which can be guided, is - I fear - no longer believed by the dog. Balanced on a double spiral track imposed by evil powers, fate also drifts a little with all its steering towards oblivion.

The deceptive mysticism finally vanishes from man, as the only net of mystery; mysterious, dissipating noses lurk beneath me, because one no longer knows who is friend and who is foe. One could be more relieved if one were lulled into self-loathing by the crystal-clear and always honest destruction of love. - The repressed night is the typical question-answer of the prophecy, the hoyan, and while the hieroglyphic flight of the bats destroys situations of existence, every day on the earthly orbit of the evil powers, everything must be started anew.

It is also worth being wary of life's wagging tail, because it is not possible to keep on wagging back every five seconds; the safety rope of the air gymnast's raging frenzy has run out, deliberately cut under the legs.

Somewhere in Europe, the bells have been struck aside again; the sluggish, deliberately forgettable Alzheimer's memory is already knocking on centenary stones. Shrinkage, schizophrenic self-consciousness, still points out tottering reason, pondering with its hesitant finger; a swarming herd of rats always spawns on new battery banks, because something attracts them. Even among epic seers and falsely testifying prophets, there are more and more blind fools, if they believe that a happier, more satisfied future can unexpectedly infiltrate us through creaky gaps.

Petty, selfish, destructive intentions flow hand in hand, just like illusions and lofty ideals; the cracked jar of past times can no longer bring deserved relief. Behind guarded gestures, forbidden grimaces, there can hardly be any stray human intention that could recreate the apparent wholeness, because even in the overbreathed suffocation, the musty, cellar-smelling air can get stuck at any time. Alamus snails march in order with their Milky Way mucus on the spearheads of rain-soaked grass blades and perhaps they are not even excited by a minor nuclear annihilation.

An old man-child hurries across the rails, stopping halfway, and perhaps looking back for those who still stared like idols of salt in the manipulable minutes of moments; the expanding Time will be dominated by space for a single minute.