The Ordas-like night roars like a flute in the Senkiház wind. A population of wild fowl scurrying around human animals scatter their disposable Janus masks. On the face of two crypts, a worn, time-stretched memory wave-law rattles, while large stones bearing witness in tearful eyes toss and turn to their heart's content.

On the frozen backwaters of trees with skeletal claws, crows' wings croak and flutter, proclaiming ominous myths.

I don't intentionally wander in jungle machine music, in a peppered crowd of people. Rather, in the tame warmth of my home, I try to wait for the mysterious destinies of the blind and invisible threads of Fate.

In curved mirrors, my familiar face hits me. Snarling disguises and bloodthirsty men swirl in a buzzing mass of cats. Another year passes and I question myself: Who was I once? and who could I be now?! In another life, the impersonation of myself could act bravely, armed with temperament.

Even then, he wouldn't want to beg for validation, immortal love, final permission to die. I've already built a solitary confinement, a cage around my onion-skin soul, because everything I once believed in can't be degraded into an insidious, calculating lie?!

The rainbow can be broken into pieces by the light, if the gullible eye allows it as an optical illusion. Therefore, it is better to feel sincere emotions with beating hearts, when I feel that every superstitious look has deceived and deceived me at the same time, as if the secret, heavenly signs and every honestly spoken word were just tinsel toys, I don't want to be angry with anyone anymore, I can only quietly make a separate peace and then die out!

I wonder what it will be like in the future, standing in the ring of what can be called polite handshakes believed to be respected, among the profane self-seeking attempts, groping glances, when everyone already thinks they can do whatever they want. While the inner soul sheds its rain-smelling crocodile tears and finally moves out of this earthly existence?!

After repeated compliments, the sole, insidious goal of which is the all-encompassing bed scene, the unconditional culmination of Everything. Even the golden and heroic ages - if they existed - are exalted only out of habit.

Among the raging daily grind and inhuman hunger wages, what will the miserable life of forty-year-olds, which they tried to scrape together for themselves, be like one day?! – What kind of cast will there be among the familiar faces?!

Again and again, everyone repeats the pathetic dog comedy around themselves for their own petty and hypocritical amusement. Self-important, boasting, and licking Alamus *****, he climbs the donkey ladder, jumping over the curses of successful and unsuccessful generations of donkeys.

And each of the babies stares at him, bewildered, in a barrage of brainwashed obsessions. Will the earthly metamorphosis of the vulnerable, human-smelling calvary and immortal lovers be recognisable? A cosmic comet-sphere beaming in the rose-scented holy glow of dawn, which got stuck halfway and then finally fell to earth?

Can we still find our way after so many self-inflicted, painful disappointments? In the manner of obsessed emotional frenzies, we even cling to the last straws, which we once approached with a humble heart!

Because sooner or later, someone always returns to the houses. No one can yet know whether it is the betrayed husband, or the bohemian lover who holds a grudge, the diva lady who tries to hide her own girlish confusion by pretending to be a superficial, hysterical canary. So many questions and answers, to which we can rarely find proper, logical answers. -

The self-destruction that is so envied by many in the intoxication of LSD or ecstasy, in the usual ******-warfare, when the manipulation is no more than a transparent and definable chess game played by two competing parties, there are wild jerks who just like that fight with stone axes , and they fight, just like their hairy-backed ancestors did a million and one millennia ago.

The gravity of the Universe sooner or later pulls everyone along and pulls them down. Because everyone is locked in a lowly cage of minimums and pitiful deadlines, so that they can languish for a lifetime between the prison walls of careers. There will be no one to take a direct interest in the life of each person!

"Just tell me, my friend? Do you still have humanity left in your heart?!" - Lét manufactures and distributes hijacked, lousy end products, as if everyone can be recycled and replaced at the same time. Curses and actions that want to curse have become a daily headache because of indifference and lack he already measured us by the kilo, like straw puppet wrecks, and that's precisely why you can't look into the depths of crooked mirrors with impunity, because he is ashamed of himself whose grotesquely distorted reflection is wolf-eyed Apocryphal codes...

Deeper scars I deliberately left to the strangeness. faint romantic notions suddenly cosmatted in my soul when I felt it was all over! Surprised, dumbfounded, I looked wordlessly around: what could I do with the life I had left?! The **** of my hangman's days had been pushed down by calculating old age. On my face yawned the cellular yawn of perpetual weariness, while the majority outside could not know it was all a sham!

Cheerful expressions, grimace-inducing holy smiles seemed to be paint that could be applied many times: secret disguises masks that could only harden with time! - There in there: in the depths of a child's foolish soul, conjurable spirit-beings stir and nestle. I run along parallel pairs of rails running back into myself, and I cannot play recklessly and carelessly when the chessboard of Existence calls: there all goes sharp!

For I have always thought of foreseeable evil, And digested it like a boiling caldron. My troubled soul constantly wanted to throw out its upset waves; an inner umbilical cord was much needed, which would lead through secret, invisible corridors boldly into the mysteries of the other body. Listening, like the vigilantly curious, till Life calls at last, and may not pass through the magic circle. A fine snare, a deceptive trap. The imprint of our lives infected with exceptionalism; the truths of honest eyes should be relearned and spoken!

In our slow castle-circles the bliss of another-self is ever waiting, And the membrane-thin instincts of touch are vulnerable to further wounding by conscious love-lust!

Each tear is already searching for smothering trenches in the frames of faces; slowly, gradually, the happy, jubilant joy ready to show itself is fulfilled, and the pretended but real sadness is realised. The delicate telescopes of the ear-cups are wound up by harsh, turbocharged bomb-quarrels, leprous howls. Untouchable and often incomprehensible is the pain of all the sorrow that trembles! The pregnant alarm bells hidden in the depths of the soul ring differently each time, and in different ghostly tones.

And perhaps every fearful loneliness may have somewhere a preconceived pair of opposites.  Truth-ness is never visible on the inner walls of their eyelids. In the inner soul-reaches, the vocal cords of Being are constantly changing! When we look at faces, almost everything is dull and fades away - but sincere emotions can be recorded crystal clear even in a streaming tomorrow! Compliments handed down from saintly romances, and curtsy etiquette that only "some" can understand!

In the meaningful moments of materialized lives, the death of the deed must once be captured in action, so that we may dare to be ourselves in silence and hope anew! - The dafke-furnishing charade: brainwashed, accumulated, enriched, syrupy tactfulness, and the phlegmatic-parochial boorish manners dictating fashion-trend, has been taken more and more seriously. Valuable treasure-houses are thus allowed to pass away and fall into *****-smelling oblivion. Give or take a few decades, and those who were once deliberately crucified by the luxury-eye-losing tabloid media for their cultural eccentricities can win themselves prestigious, laurel-coloured prizes merely for the worthy cause of their death!

Even former exotic beauties are only remembered by broken nail clippings...

Others even now only laugh, while your self-pitying triumph slowly collapses and buries you under yourself! Blinding narcissism may haunt the luxurious pink-mask syrupiness of tabloid media, and today, even the self-conceited halal scientists, the planning suicides, are not asked on the wise altars of tolerance: would it have been better to know psychological processes or the chaos formula of brain convolutions?! - Every exibitionist, superficial moment flirts with illusion; the onion skin of the human soul is still always on itself, while the number of days is bargained with itself as a freeloader!

Our pressed confessions of love are often lacking in self-satisfying, passionate romance. Mutual congratulations in an evening of spotlight and rainbow that lasts until midnight hold traps and murderous daggers for each other! Lost in the midst of so many muffled grins, even solidly-supported reality is scrubbed by reversed, pathetic, grotesque roles! On made-up faces like wax-glowing larvae shine fake-measuring emotions and emotions! While the common man queues for autographs, clinging to Golgotha-ridden friendships!

In the hopes of his bogus expectations - honest-to-God friendships - it is a pity to cling on running; it is impossible to escape the arrogant, phlegmatic slogans of publicity - all the falsehoods of the past can be further fixed! Chocolate left out in the sun, like the exaggerated tanning-bed orange-skin, soon melts and is ruined! - Every filling-heart seems to crack sooner or later, when surrounded by rings of sincerity!

It imposes itself on everything, and everything becomes a rotten ***** because it has seen itself. Beneath the surface, moving, cocktail-drinking, bubbly V.I.P. exclusive evenings, insidious snake hisses, double entendres, universal sunken rot. Career graveyards at a loss become compulsive shapeshifters in pursuit of larger goals, looting dreams. In addition to a carefree lifestyle, it is necessary to take on grief and dirt with a toaster. Sooner or later, even the absolute winners are driven out of the race.

Only Death can bring comfort and consolation. To body and soul alike it offers a semblance of equality.- Daily shedding their reptilian-veined skins are the Janus-like Angels, saints, pretending prophet-greats. Whose daily ruined lives they ruin, They notice nothing but the virtue, if it pops, or if they lack the necessary sum To preserve the ruins of their sham happiness.

It may be that everything has long since been decided according to the suggestion of self-interest. Perhaps, with a little effort, petty kings and loyalty stooges could stay afloat in economic life-and-death struggles, bargaining even at the cost of their miserable lives to serve the legitimate institutions of cheap lies like prodigals: to dream is folly.

But for now, surely, it is better for many to bellow, to bend their heads and shout, to bang others' heads against the wall, shouting democratic slogans - the respectable historical chronicle will also record this in a falsified form, but people will have no trace of it when the moral balance has cooled down!