It is becoming more and more necessary to descend into myself at every age; on the edge of the expandable Time and perhaps beyond. The tangled coils of my brain often form a Gordian knot, a lasso is tied by the consciousness of what else I need to ruin in order to develop, to learn, or just to learn from my petty, childish mistakes. From the neighbor, I hear a swarm of bee-like shouting, a childish scolding.

Two twin boys are madly in love again, wondering who can try out the newest Playstation?! In my selfish cave system, the film reels of my memories are still rolling unnoticed, addressing me; from the corners of long, winding rivers, a familiar face or two may still look back. Nothing can be a sufficiently black-and-white, silent episode in a person's life. My sickly foot stumbles halfway between spinning mosaic tiles.

I would recognize the echoing sound of my footsteps anywhere, only my Beloved is missing on one of my inner paths. Out there, in an unlivable desire to survive, they are at each other's throats, like wolves and hyenas who betray themselves at any moment, just so that they alone can be right; in my hamster-like cheek pouch, I have chewed a few Haribo gummies or a Neapolitan stringy snack, so that I never forget that I was once a child and curiously simple-minded.

Wild beasts and beasts are now raging in humanoid bodies at the same time, and one turns one's head in question: Will there never be a peaceful feeling of well-being, harmony, or development here?! Media-celebrity monkeys who are unable to articulate dictate fashion trends, while nameless-minute-humans receive millions in salaries from someone somewhere! We are increasingly unable to organize our evicted, mischievous lifestyle in a frugal manner!

One after another, like well-developed wax figures, bounce down from the Ferris wheel of the city of Nineveh: first drunken, saucy brats, later disco rats proclaimed as cool party faces, chirping teenage queens, who are primarily interested in the media and the beauty industry and have no intention of taking an advanced high school diploma or taking an English language exam. They may not be accountable to anyone but themselves, because they are rushing through the already confusing, drafty decades, when nothing is what it seems; even pretend friendships can no longer save them from their sullen loneliness.

The sluggish boredom of the senses is still reflected in their gullible instincts. They may still pay dearly for their lives. They rarely wake up from their unconscious quarantine dreams to the warning crowing of the rooster at dawn; on the one hand, they are not interested in the already uncertain and shallow Future, on the other hand, they find themselves in the certain knowledge that as long as their ancestors take care of everything for them, life will shower them with new idyllic gifts.

The streets, littered with ***** and burnt cigarette butts, are still weary in their remaining fatigue, and the equality of opportunity believed to be solid for survival, or survival, cannot particularly kick a ball for them. Clinging to the porches of their teeth, lame pity curses itself just like stretched tolerance, because the fact of safe crossing has become unconsciously meaningless!

If you no longer pay attention - I fear - you will no longer be able to notice the boulders suspended by a hair's breadth in time, if the unwary squeeze under them and they flatten you in a fleeting minute. Not paying attention to mortal Time, you still give yourself up, always only watching the atomic chaos of the World that has begun to become confused.

Certainty, like some old, twentieth-rate, petty little spy, builds itself in you, and *****-nilly you will expect your passing from your birth. Because even now you are still constantly looking back, in the distorted images of crooked mirrors you measure the centers of gravity of your wasteful years in moments; and you cannot understand that you have already done so much, even in the place of others, and yet you have not been able to tear off the spiral prison-handcuffs of Time from your sinful soul.

For some time now, only the eternal oblivion that has been left alone has been your pillow and at the same time your pillow; Your searching eyes wink at the infinite horizon and even now he doesn't know that he was wrong at all, that he was unable to start a new life.

Your memories are horribly confused, like so many sins of your petty and selfish past; they break their contracts not only according to the laws of the heart but also according to human laws; and while a tachycardia malfunction may become common due to the approaching dangerous raging infarctions in your heart, you know: the emergency services are always half an hour late. Your body's fever curves would warn you with alarm signals that you should always avoid high blood pressure and long-sugared cakes.

Instead of the former endless lines of existence, something from over there is sending messages on increasingly closed spiral centrifuge paths; it almost flirtatiously invites you to leave this lying One-World here, which has become unworthy, even if you have a million and one tasks left. The circle that returns to itself - if you are not careful - can break prematurely...

Who would have thought that even within a few decades, pop and celebrity culture infected with postmodernity could be so resonant, calculating, and pathetic?! It's like some kind of anchored, stupid social pyramid game, Phalanx theories that produce mass people want to prevail by tripping each other up, and just like Orwell's 2+2 can rarely be 4. Average people, even ******* animals, prefer to deliberately wipe the soles of their shoes on each other, just so they don't have to help the other, even a little.

Air transport routes are only available to charter flights of the nouveau riche, since there is hardly any scurrying or customs inspection. Existence - like it or not - is becoming increasingly unstable, while everything else is doomed and contingent. They are constantly changing places, especially on the front of syrupy, false tabloid media, and more and more people are deliberately trying to position themselves, if they still can, of course. Words that falsify the edge of Being are already breaking down; because the light-pulsation of hearts is perhaps not sure to truly show itself even in the idyllic dawn of romanticism.

It would be good if the simple average person would regularly observe the sacred curvature of his life, with its swinging weight, in which he was born long ago, and in which he has learned to thrive - as he does - out of necessity. Without a net, on just one rope, it is necessary to move forward one step at a time, hopefully towards the West rather than the East. In a tense soul, even solid calm is increasingly flammable.

With their loose, jerky-hick performance movements, centaur terminators, well-molded by testosterone, are regularly galloping into their brand-new Ferraris, especially on Andrássy Avenue. A teenage lady wearing a deliberately provocative and transparent cocktail dress also offers predatory prey, who wants to be an adult at any cost, so that later she can easily assert herself even without an advanced level of maturity.

Horse pounding - nothing more - is now left for the carefree, pitiful lazy-indifferent posterity. In the distance, you can still see a cut-off Van Gogh sunflower head caught in hesitation, which exotic women no longer wear in their hair.

The witch's kitchen of meaningless promises and petty bargains stuffed into pockets that are starting to leak can hardly be enough for the simple average person to understand this two-faced, superficial era. And while some jury members start to publicly blatantly complain that it would be a good idea to save some journals as dubious intellectual products, so that primarily the ancients, and not the young people of the next donkey generations who are considered talented, can publish - the busy, slightly stupid wild geese are already getting into shape, and they can hardly wait to lick their ***** to a mirror shine.

Sooner or later, even the lives of swindlers shrink into dubious ends, just like the remnants of most superficial, posh glitter; because now the good friend walks with spring knives just like the old or occasional enemy. It is impossible to know what a piercing, deliberately suspicious eye, flashing from behind closed shutters or blinds, is thinking?! On the razor-sharp tracks of express trains that are constantly late or never arrive, the harsh judgments of false witnesses and prodigal children are still increasingly felt...

Bricks, building materials, have become lacking from the empty chasms of time; the Apocryphal thought symbol, thought solid for millennia - perhaps - has been permanently erased, swept under the rug, so that there would be no need to think or ask questions. Once upon a time, the essential things to say were engraved on baked clay tablets, which nothing could destroy: neither time nor memory. Now, halfway to this nameless, belittling Babylon, among the squirming linguistic confusions of Babels, they are less and less willing to even ask each other: Well, tell me!

What did you spend on palaces spinning on duck legs and monthly salaries of millions?! In a hundred-foot columned solitude, Simeon also blinked at the wide world spread out before his feet; sees and perhaps is not even very surprised if brother sells brother, thief sells thief, since there has long been no honor in outlaw honor.

All petty, ***** fake deals that have ever been made in the name of man, even by great powers made arrogant, are a crushing hesitation, a turning around; the halter of shaken everyday habits pulls its victims back and forth. They can hardly understand the shell-suffering that sprouts between the petals of the soul, because other - apparently - more important things also enjoy pure priority, because the sinking combined with the sure fall, which the treadle of everyday life itself gives birth to a slow turn.

It would be even better if the average person did not necessarily have to hate himself in the cheap-tinny calvary of everyday life - but at least he could lift himself up from the muddy swamps of the yellow earth with will and conviction. The outside world can now be less and less a true home-shelter, at most only a temporary refugee camp, where many people-crowds seemingly rest, and then even the patient but passing guest picks up their tent poles and moves on, driven by the forced prosperity of their inner homesickness and their Odyssey.

The deep blue night, awaited with stars, spreads its cloak over our shoulders. Everything can be a wasteland, perhaps there is no need for lost love with all its kisses. The moment carries the habitable Eden far away like a pearl; one becomes a naked shell if one does not heed its merciful word. A fist-tamped grain of dust has become the sin of mortality; the petty word of Life should be engraved on a bench with 10 nails. The cloudless afternoon was a fleeting shadow play; it would be good to unravel the expected threads that the past still holds along hidden memories. One should live wisely, because memory always buries a heavy seal deeper and deeper on those who are still fleeing.

How many times has the ragged hope rung, all memories have burned out. Among the friends who have disappeared to nowhere, there is not one who would stand by you; because the handles are not open, man's thoughts are still roaring seas; the moment, laced in foam, is stuck in the throats of whirlpools, the churning waves. Homeless souls crouch down and still eye the food of alley-smelling garbage cans.

Like the exile or the wandering stranger, their grave sins; man alone carries his burdens like a hunted beast, because it would be good to cling to hope; derailed screams cannot be deafened. Existence no longer plucks the strings of pain. In the nameless future, it would be good to preserve the eternal contrast of movements alongside the quiet peace, instead of the decided intentions, the speech of innocent victims.

It is increasingly difficult to get up, if we have fallen completely, it would be good to free ourselves from the petty shackles of lies, to the border points that always end through a black hole.