Time, believed to be infinite, can still turn like a dagger in the hearts, like a silent state close to infarction. The suffering of the fleeting, earthly life will eventually return to itself; every remaining memory bursts out like a drowning man in the throat, because the soul can only stammer hesitantly. Idle, fettered patience still urges its victims not to rest, but rather to action.

Hidden rays of sunlight remain here from the lost Summer, because as a curious wanderer of extremes, although man falls to the ground, he still goes on and on, as long as his edematous, water-soaked lame legs can hold him; because now they are trampling even more and more furiously – if necessary, if not – value, good friends, helpful intentions, if that is what is needed to impress superficial strangers.

The crystal-clear presence that cuts through waking life with a scalpel still drags me into the grip of uncertain tomorrows; your neck on a leash, like some godless noose from which there is rarely any sure escape, neither near nor saving grace will let you go. You stumble as long as you can, one foot after the other, like a chronic drunk homeless person, and you cannot understand that in the mole tunnels of the subway, when a threatening snaking train screams, will there be anyone who will provide first aid, while the emergency services are often thirty minutes late?!

Like leeches, these superficial, self-serving celebrity faces; there is no one who would not burrow beneath the surface, manipulate their bitterly collected digital followers, so that they can even make pretend friendships as a pretense for the sake of a sweet post.

The inner core of personality is constantly weighed down by stereotypes and prejudices; those who still dream of sincere, true knowledge are forced to be stewards. They carry their selfish, predictable vices on their shoulders, which would have happened anyway, if they had not happened to them in the abysses of their past. Perhaps it is better if they remain a vice forever and become a dormant convalescent, who rather feigns a long, prolonged sleep, like the majority of chronic necrophiliacs, just so that they can finally escape what is really waiting for them.

Even the greedily offended summer residents are increasingly involuntarily overtaken by permanent oblivion; they scatter themselves among so many dubious flatterers, while a series of counter-thrusts knock them down again and again. As if in a looming emptiness, he is still searching for someone on whom he can count in every fateful situation of existence; he will slowly reach the finish line, slowly overtaking himself.

With the brutal morbidity of smiles, everyone is slowly letting themselves fall apart, because he can hardly do anything else. Brainwashed drunks are now even eating the spiritual food pantry of free thoughts out there, if there is anything left to grab.

Cautious love is increasingly rare in including awkward, experimental lines, invitations that it would be appropriate to participate in and show up at. Mysterious longings pass unnoticed from one moment to the next, because this whole thing that this raging outside World is doing to itself is so neurotic that it has completely surpassed the chronic fever curves of nonsense and blood-curdling grotesqueness.

It would be good to extend our arms towards each other a little more nobly, more dignifiedly, so that we can guard the silence that longs to open in each other; halfway between the stigmata of bodies, to touch the slaps that have become unworthy, the petty formations of bandages and scars. Because the surprised Being betrays its own hidden Apocryphal essences, its calculating secrets, at almost every age.

We do not know where the budding love morning flees from us with its broken wings, when everything still seems so clear and simple. Sooner or later – we do not even notice it – the innocent, orphaned child in us always denies itself first, and only later the adult who seems absolute, presenting himself as a victim. Because when evil, manipulative, calculating things and connections arise above our heads, it is as if others were already writing the rules of our Fate for us.

– Conscience – no matter how much we want it – now only protects us formally, like most of the official but burnable documents that the historical era has entrusted to us as witnesses. Even now, it seems that slimy, sticky dirt and secretions stick to it from hand to hand; so wash your useless, crusty hands with baby soap several times; do not accept easily received alms! All thieves, idle jerks and fools, Pilate's hand-washers of compromises, who sold themselves with a calm heart, because they knew that otherwise, those who got stuck here could not prevail.

He is increasingly hasty, judging. As if the constantity moving in one place would vibrate every petty, trifling limb, every visceral instinct. The consequences of deeds, actions, petty, hellish words roll off him; as if he himself could already guess that one day he will have to pass away for good.

Conscious despair, an intensified cry for help swirls in his incessantly creaking limbs. Lack and Nothingness incessantly forces its wedding-like decorations upon itself; it would strain his Sisyphus-like, restless seriousness more and more until he realizes why?!

The last supper night closes like an old, rusty lock, when every person takes a little account – including him – of what he has done with his petty sins, his stooped back, a whole spleen-weight, as if the heavy lead bullet were still dragging itself through a remnant-fragment of life. With closed eyes, one should have learned to feel in the other that one can count on him without ceasing.

He no longer demands his ****** integrity, even his more humane human rights, even if they were deliberately curtailed, since he has made the dances of the Universe and the heart quite clear.

But he has often rung the bells at dawn for some of his undisguised, eternally unconditional childish laughter. Now, thundering estuaries clash above his head; I could easily rob him. The world is now welcoming him outside, because perhaps the silent prison keys can no longer jingle in his hearing ear. No son should possess his rightful innocence with a usurping desire. Because every adult collapses and stumbles a little, while the child remains steadfast in the Spirit!

Like a time bomb cogwheel, every nerve-string in your brain seems to tense up when Existence raises new barriers against you, you run into petty, petty, calculating rejections; through the tiny, almost insignificant gaps of everyday life that have become one, we still peek out curiously and vigilantly, hoping that some organization that is advertised as a charity will provide you with some kind of cheap, free charity. Existence is still - in vain you would deny it - hibernating unwaveringly and not noticing at all when? where? Who was wrong to rightfully acknowledge its crimes and offenses.

Another Disneyland will follow - it is true - here in Central Europe, this one too, a worse, more inferior, and therefore more sloppy version. And while digitally infected Trojan horses are being sent here and there in the broad digital sphere of interest, the average person – well, they can – only turn their heads, because ultramodern technologies are incomprehensible to them, and not that clear.

It almost hurts and at the same time humiliating that your own goals, desires, and plans, like usurping Tyrants, are simultaneously towering over your head, and you are constantly 100% hooked to the core because you cannot understand how things and connections could change even three hundred and sixty-five degrees per second?! – Summer also produces hibernated obituaries in this disgustingly musty-smelling air, like when pigs roll their one and a half pound, bloated bodies in the lap of swampy mud seas, just because they feel like it.

And while summer opening hours – in many places – can be as late as eleven o'clock, you can hardly find any saving, cooling shade in the forest of immense concrete slab cages.

A moonlit night ponders on musty, blue cobblestones; now not even Zhuang Xi and even a night woven with ten thousand cobwebs of solitude can console me, since the yellowish cheese moon has long since turned every stray, orphaned shadow brown. I stare at the ceiling melancholy, idly in the balmy summer night, while the conscious Lack surrounds me a little frighteningly, like a creeping, hiding ivy.

On endless roads, like a wandering wanderer, with my restless restlessness, I must set out, so that like Kerouac I may find the pitiful, monotonous essence of my visceral life, if it still remains. Peeling wounds guard my soul, unwavering, like some watchful herald, or rather a guard, so that I may never forget who I once was.

My instincts and feelings, like offended, petty goblins, are chasing me like genies, inconsolable, until they carry me far away. I long for peace, harmony, a happiness that I can find, which I may never be able to achieve, since there will always be lurking dragons, evil, vile wizards, who with petty, petty pleasures trap me, and hinder my eternally childlike existence. Four-legged like a crab, occasionally looking back, with hands in pockets, the uncertain Present often justly plunders me, like a robber, its unsuspecting crime.

Being may seem like a dizzy, melancholy game, but perhaps it never was. As if little by little all good, noble intentions were dying, fading away in me; I am bribed by the superficial, meaningless, superstitious flirting eye game with which an angel honors me. All the states of plans and promises can fall into an endless vortex if one is only able to feel and see with one's heart: the planned dreams are now more likely to be awaited by Never Island, the weight of graves is awaited by moss that has been soaked in, smelling of mold!

Your soul descends into the ancient, subconscious cave depths if you truly, sincerely want to know yourself. Where there is no longer any calculating, manipulative evil, ambiguous promise phrases, or fabulous illusions of appearance, only the rock-hard, almost visceral absolute Reality. Not even the allure of flirtatious smiles that want to flirt with you can take away your life-weary skeptical mood, there is no disgusting nauseating taste of evening tales.

There is no honeyed, glazed flattering voice of eternal immortal loves, because truthful holy words are faithful to themselves and to you, and mean stripped-down simplicity. It would be good to have a protective, savior Angel, who would stand in front of the door of your life with a sword in a kind and direct way, and would protect your eternal childish self within you, and would open the tiny key to your secrets only to those with truer hearts; who would tell you, urging patience to your restlessness, what is the only secret of a more real life.

– They will embrace you like the dormant ivy vine, with their promises of more beautiful, more livable things, which would lead you back into the cold and often monotonous prison walls of reality. On the misplaced paths of your mood, you can only allow the Kind One to follow you, sniffing like an adorable little animal; even cat-like early morning absences cannot hold you back completely if you want your life to finally get back on track. Mutuality or continuity?! When which?!

You would ask and secretly it happens pitifully that you don't even notice and are forced to interrogate yourself. Will the small, flat gaps between people, social, emotional, and so on, be bridged, or will the prairie and asphalt jungle ocean collapse into a salty, uninhabited sandy desert?!