The eternal-child soul may one day grow up to the ennobled tragedies of fate; it will be blinded by the lack of Nothing that nests in the subconscious, because only one chance is possible for the pairs of proportions. In the meantime, as the periods of life history alternated more and more shallowly, the desire for certain falls became insoluble again. The foaming waves of oceans also lost their sails, because man cannot find the Odyssey of homesickness only in death. One day man will understand why it is necessary for him to still post faithfully in temporary circumstances on the bands of the lowest boundlessness, so that his time does not run out early, the promised fruits of the small Sisyphean weights without space and time can only grow and be created around the house of others.

Why can't the human word find a suitable analogy for the inner, more hidden soul?! Because there is only one possible answer to completeness, just like the fillable Universe?! Today's digitally underdeveloped age deliberately lacks the reliable monotony of paced, rhythmic slowness; even in the beating, feeling heart, there is a total lack of emptiness if it is unable to decipher and interpret the belittling feedback of a given microenvironment. The feelings of the duplicated Self are often consciously covered up by the personality that shows the surface.

- They put their self-identity to sleep, or wake it up from its dreams. Because Being, a little beyond death, finally rests on the branch of Nothingness!

The budding romantic morning of summer, like a colorful veil, is now torn into tiger stripes; the musty-smelling darkness of Sikátor is unraveling from itself in strands. Man would like to throw off not only his nightmares, like a worn, worn, worn-out coat, but also the germs of human-smelling, two-faced evil. Like a thick, impassable door, which can lead to who knows where - all the sinful sins of infinity close on us unnoticed. that we have become mortal, and our immortal soul cannot be completely independent, free, locked in the cage of our body. Even now, above every dream-career, a rubbed, greedy, petty condor vulture circles, feasting on the remains of mooching prey. It would be good if we could strip our inner souls of finite sadness, like the secret anatomy of sorrow, because inside – often barely noticeable – a firm barking that wants to whine how loudly roars.

Man always dies a little in his Sisyphean selfishness, he can never fully understand the helpless absurdities of filling up. Hour by hour, not only conscious small-mindedness grows, but also the universally expanded fear of failure and success, according to which: no one can be good enough either for himself or for the great, hypocritical World. In crypt faces, increasingly vile, evil grotesque grins look at witnesses, hypocritical prophets, like grimaces.

The selfishness of the world first necessarily consumes, but also surprisingly often buries its defenseless victims, who would still have clung to something. Wrapped up in petty sermons of words, like pupae, people mostly betray and betray themselves first. Fewer and fewer people can take an understanding look at the precise evidence of corruption!

Sleepless Times, which can conspire at any time even in the tamed land of dreams – if they so choose. Signs of the past should be nursed, who carry the pain of stigma wounds unnoticed. Like the children who were made to sit in silent silence or were scolded, who could not get gummy bears, Playstations, or anything else – now, as if the dawning morning light involuntarily humiliates a person deeper and deeper... Like the tiny ants, a person can also increasingly – if you are not careful – break into broken mosaic pieces, which nothing, not even the laws of the Universe, can put back together;

The secret worldly materials of humanity and spirit can no longer be realized by the balancing desire for certain instinctual satisfaction. Unsuspecting, they cross so many belittling, forbidden thresholds, because they are sufficiently careless, unwary, and involuntarily violate the inner silence of the secret circles of the soul. On the fate-woven veil of Being, a stray, clinging cobweb thread often tips over; the secret mood melancholy of joy and sorrow, just like the secret pendulum of moods, changes every second, like the devil's spasm. Because the eternal Nothing can still be lost by the crumbling Lack, because it lacks the secret umbilical cord that once organically chained its defenseless, lonely victims to Life!

The fragments of memory, like the potsherds, can break at any time; first only the found, yet hesitant movement falls apart, then the hug, or perhaps the handshake. We reserve the pitiful entrance to our cold, cheap, petty secrets – at least for now – for the competent love who would bring the One-Dear!

Ever since man has been conscious, he has been aware of it a little: here, it seems as if everything has suddenly ceased to exist, has been ruined, has been destroyed, as if there is no way to go anywhere or escape from here, because the whole big World is totally ruined. Nothing is and cannot be in rock-solid order anymore. It is as if not only the cells, organs, but also the driving springs of the internal body responsible for digestion, which also operate the heart acting as a pump, are deliberately becoming heavier.

And already – without a doubt – the tiny vibrations of the soul still move themselves faithfully, perhaps the dog no longer even pays attention to them. The inner longing torments the man's guts more and more; to go or to remain still for a few more ownerless, uninhabited decades, until we are no longer forty but fifty or sixty years old, and the piles of feces of our dreams and plans intended for realization dissolve into old men.

There is rarely a way out of the tingling grip of enormous lead weights, because sooner or later, one way or another, one must necessarily perish unworthy among the mists of gray, mortal dawn. The latent Lack grafted into Nothingness can still be held to an infinite account, because it would always interrupt, cut off the conscious realization to which man would generally still cling. Should we be left to rot, so that the eternal-childish fear and anxiety boil halfway?!

A touching tide of phrases of nauseating, nauseating speeches; that how much easier it would be if I-Time could be somehow expanded, although it is universally known that it is all in vain, because a single day only has 24 hours, and because there are many people for whom even 36 hours are becoming less and less!

In every age, this rigid falling flight stretched to the point of invisibility, into which a person involuntarily, inescapably clings out of necessity, because he can hardly do anything else. Belittling, selfish wasps lurk, dipping their stingers deep into your skin, in your built life, which you have scraped for yourself; you yourself rarely notice that you have become a decoy, who can continue to be led, deceived.

Out there, a crowd of brainwashed idiots, like fevered moles who have lost their minds, are constantly digging tunnels of dubious, pitiful careers, because they think that there is greater success, where one can lick some people's *****, but in vain, because a lying larval silence clings to their already ***** souls.

Because in livable life, the balance, which is already unstable and indifferent to the core, is increasingly tipping, namely, who is pulling which way and where?! Why do we have to stumble up and down endless eternities amidst constant tugs?! The un-understood wound is breaking into fragments of uncertain, doubtful tomorrows.

The selfish stigma-sins of fearful coincidences can hardly be heard by the ear of a simple person anymore; Now it has become more and more customary that retirement is just a privilege, and can only be given, and whoever, forty-something years later, still wants to recover from the anxieties of a stormy childhood with any dignity, would be better off going to Hell, so that they can at least warm up and not freeze to death for lack of fuel. This is how pre-planned desires, instinctively calculated plans, and objectives become old men with stomachaches, urinary stones, and toddlers. They doze off with their livable lives out of necessity!

On the Nineveh-smelling, alley-like street corner, habit is becoming increasingly furious. The plum body of indifferent public sentiment seems to be withering; the petty rage of moods is also stirring more and more imperceptibly, although for now only in melancholy silence, because the big city is already infected with work-horror, the face of a hack is always suspicious; since no one is named and no one polishes parquet floors and terracotta stones to their liking and the total is always doubtful, because it is constantly changing.

In disposable job grinders, stadium-sized emotions try to stir the stagnant water; the always imported melon peel has long since rotted, just like the pitted, crunchy but wormy cherry, because even the last thoughts cannot really win on their own. Deep in the soul – fearful –, man would in vain seek smaller wormholes for himself in a self-willed rebellion, and then with transparent hearts, like a wandering ghost, to wander carefully throughout his life, because in this consumer society no one can be truly himself anymore.

And since perhaps no one finds it, because they could not really look for the hiding place of happiness, the unbearably deliberate narrow path of existence now leads to total Nothingness, the disenfranchised meaning of which is increasingly difficult for anyone to understand. Man rolls heavy boulders like Sisyphus in vain if he cannot settle anywhere and remains in one place. More and more emphasis is placed on superficial, exhibitionistic artificiality, while the small child crouching in the soul is gradually, intentionally forgotten.

They can leave their moldy faces hanging for decades on some arrogant, rusty copper screws, from which protruding nails sneer their ominousness; modern man is increasingly showing withdrawal symptoms that seem to be hidden!

It has now begun to be a passing malaise, to be punished for everything, except for one's own faults, when not only things, melancholy objects, but also calculating and suspicious glances behind the back of the defenseless, vulnerable person, who is - usually - left alone to a sufficient extent, look at each other like silent accomplices. They dig their wildcat claws into the skin, saying: "Let it hurt, just calmly!"

- That is why the majority can gradually come to like totally catastrophic circumstances at any time. A single happy self-forgetfulness, self-deception, self-deception is now just enough for a person to compromise at any time or to perform a ritualistic Turn of the Way; carrion flies, petty thugs peck at their pleasure, spitting on the germs of a more livable life that yearns for order. Is every path both anger and humility?! Halfway between the two, a mirage of speech that has neither ears nor tail.

Guided by the weight of memories, and then burned, it would still be good to cling to the echoes of encrypted heartbeats, which comfortingly alleviate the apocalyptic ominous omens of sadness. Every phantom pain is also a trench dug with us also; the taste of sleepless nights among the rusting gears of the brain, wondering if Someone would still pay attention; a futile squirrel circling in a chained labyrinth, from which there is no and can no longer be a way out anywhere.

– The embankment road is constantly closed; sometimes due to flooding, sometimes due to noise! Anyway, it leads to underworld filth and filth. All unnecessary alarms and cries were a false alarm, let the neglected anger and injured self-consciousness wear away quite calmly on the sunken, slightly eternally childish face.