It was not enough that our spiritual stigma wounds repeatedly opened up after experiencing a more serious tragedy of fate, but it was as if our invisible fate had secretly taken revenge on us, simply by turning against us; how many times is it necessary to pay an eternal, untimely debt?! Money, work, nature may no longer be enough, because souls must and must be devoured here and now, because will and humility have ceased to exist, just like sincere trust.

Like a bottomless pit, one time continuum provides a passage to the other; Anger and fear, as well as nagging anger, nowadays often enter into a pact with each other in the name of harmfulness, because the flavors of intoxicating kisses now have the smell of rotten apples, from the distance of time, an unsolicited whisper slowly trickles down, warning the weak person: wake up to Reality!

Their pathetic self-pity has been deliberately slowed down, its second round will only come when each person learns to value themselves enough to not have to dig their daily well-deserved dinner out of the stinking piles of garbage containers, because there was no other.

The lady also prefers to scrape the pretzel from her fried meat, because it increases the risk of cellulite and then she will no longer be so supermodel-perfect in her fierce bikini. A complicated struggle in the soul is the result of deepening pockets, which everyone keeps to themselves and cannot show to anyone; Even manipulable mistakes will become completely human, as long as there is always at least one person to make sure they understand!

As if one could sense at once that the passage of Time, like aging, is some kind of manipulable, unexpectedly prepared, live prelude to the uncertain, increasingly burdensome, because when Being ages, not only the physical attributes, but also the soul, the actors in the outside world, and relatives are less and less willing, or even more and more deliberately, to ignore those who have become useless in their greedy, petty eyes.

The wind constantly brings the sermons of old men and dog barking, that often a simple person cannot even feel like living; the latest pension plan is more of a labyrinth twisted into itself, a pitiful experiment, because no one has yet managed to build stable houses of cards from the little extras. As if they were deliberately banging their heads against concrete walls, because they know that they will never break like a humanoid skull.

A panopticon of empty illusions and imaginations still embraces its childish victims who want to hope. But for what?! The spinach-green language of executioner times keeps playing, pulling people to their liking. As if everyone is deliberately trying to outwit the system of sensual disappointments as impressions with their total sobriety, which can be manipulated in the same way by a flirtatious smile, a mischievous, eye-catching, but calculating look; all in vain! If only we could rarely hold on to the salvation of embracing or strange arms!

One day, one will not even notice, and from one's buildable failures and somersaults, a few improvised houses of cards will collapse cheerfully in no time; one day, not only the petty, mischievous baby-tooth premiums, which it would have been good to give to every employee at least towards the end of the year, but also the regular pensions, whose basic value does not change, only their transparency and value are continuously decreasing, will start to leak through every crack.

Because they do not always say what the intentions of the ratings are, let alone keep the individual, the average individual, who cannot know anything about anything, completely calmly under the devilish veil of permanent uncertainty, since reason is already increasingly discouraged and disillusioned and hanging its dream-intoxicated head.

It can be hard to admit that Life is often like a group of crooks and fake card players cheating each other at the same time, because there has long been no honor for thieves, while the stock market speculation on the World Wide Web watches with superior, condescending indifference the pitiful slug-fight, which is usually produced by some social community even several times a day.

They walk around with indifferent Janusz poker faces and, if they like, even wander around a usable industrial or garbage hill, where even cockerels are used to scratching around, hoping to find priceless treasures in the mud. - Thinking a little more carefully, it is only possible to distribute truly essential and extremely important things to say and announcements in a veiled, dosed manner, mainly to those who can afford to pay more for them!

They are not going up the stigma-gradient - they are more like molehills, getting trapped in pitiful holes, going down, just as the standard of living is starting to sink more and more every day and is amortizing itself!

Outstretched bird wings are cherished by the bars of a wire fence; we wonder to ourselves: where should we go from here to be a little better off?! To be finally free from the shackles of a dull, difficult everyday life?! The possible opportunities - a small consolation - now only provide measurable, well-deserved laurels for the few chosen ones. We ourselves are obstacles on the petty, crooked donkey ladder of self-assertion, because the average person cannot decide by what yardsticks the value of even real manual labor is measured, and because our own limitations have long been torn and torn apart again.

As if everywhere, inquisitive, soul-seeking eyes were watching in the digital space, perhaps just like among the grains of sand of Time, whose tormented passing we feel in our old bones; it surrounds people mercilessly, almost like an interrogator, the indecipherable cause-and-effect relationship is merciless, according to which: was it better to work thirty-six hours a day sweating, breaking stones, mixing asphalt, tar, and mate for less than someone who pushes paper ***** to their heart's content in the depths of air-conditioned, cool mouse-hole rooms, and for more?!

The intentionally endless spirals of branches and detours seem to be all the same age as the invisible Universe from which they were taken; man, like a shipwrecked Robinson swinging on a driftwood, would still like to cling to the shoreless tomorrows, although he feels that the chances are getting smaller and smaller!

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.