You wouldn't even admit it to yourself now, but you are forced to guard your own inner silence with open eyes, before being violated again and again every day; you couldn't believe that, like the beasts, you still await the Lack or the executioner's rope as your fate, you are chewing away the iron door of your prison cell of existence instead of yourself, because you have to jump into the subconscious nothingness, so that later you can safely catch yourself like a goldfish.

All that is now referred to as a solid fact-Reality may sooner or later become a terrifying fate, because even the enraged, snarling wild animal is increasingly stalking you; you pick up tiny crumbs as steps, while you only bend down with a sore back for a good bite, because your birth-beginning could never really begin, and yet it is forced to pass.

The thought keeps stumbling faintly, so that it can finally lie down in your melancholy mouth, because karma holds it captive. You are either forced or unwilling to drag your own weight every day, like many, many self-reliant millions of ants, who have a goal floating before their mental eyes; to climb the besieging sacred peaks of the social pyramid, laws, petty, meaningless rules of the game are binding you tooth and nail in the name of the broken balance, so that everyone is now hunting, slapping, or scraping for themselves.

On your bumpy, worn-out path set out from your heart, it would have been good if at least one person had accompanied you, but you yourself can easily see how much of a phrase this is now, a bumbling speech. You will remain locked in yourself for life, silently following your own beaten shadow, like some limping, confused Sisyphus, because you can hardly do anything else. Your wrinkles write your apocryphal will on the clown wall of your eternal childish face...

Because now man can hardly do anything else: mere Existence is a pile of straw and a foolish faith in survival, needles and thorns constantly wound his bare feet until they bleed. Afraid or just an addict, a blind eye, a solid fairy tale about the promised dream lives, which at most only flow through a few tabloid media sewers every day at their pleasure.

A sluggish indifference coordinated to the inexorable rhythm of life instincts follows as a paid extra, to walk on the edge of the threshold of Existence on black and white squares, - it is true - only a few dare to do this.

As if restless, rebellious minds could hardly walk in slow motion through the undulating peaks and valleys of the soul believed to be immortal, like a buzzing link, like an ant together with the excluded inner loneliness of man creates the system theory of its symbiosis; because only great powers are able to rid extreme living conditions of pests. Stripped vacuums of timelessness are created and destroyed in seconds.

Each and every outgrown situation is increasingly strangely devalued, because the intentionally tamed childhood, which should never have been intentionally forced out with its raw brutality, has become a paper coffin in itself. Some similar, petty finite beings may sooner or later still recognize the one-essence: only seconds separate the bearable struggles of existence from falling towards the certain depths. The uncertainty hasn't made the days any more predictable.

Sooner or later, sweating and creaking, he will confess his inner, more feared soul to someone else; perhaps to a possible third party, if he still sees. He will catch a glimpse of himself in the sacred whirl of silently yawning curved mirrors, which show his truer, more authentic face, Wrapped in gauze of promise, like larval pupae we simultaneously chew on morsels, and we mutually reproach each other, because everything and everyone has its turn. Why is it necessary to continue to tolerate the frightened scolding of soul hordes?!

Today, man tolerates and endures his plunderers out of necessity. Perhaps one day he himself will become the atoning guardian angel of his selfish-belittled scoundrels; the false-shell of the appearance that they wanted to celebrate will finally burst, they fall apart, they drown in the anthill-like, fierce jungle-throng, big cities with the smell of Nineveh, rotten space-dirt and indifference-lined wild Lack keeps dancing on the hearts. It breeds on sinister shadows, like some infected big patient, the World is incurable.

It would be better to stop once and for all the unborn promise and grace that smells purely and exclusively of profit and money; instead of flirtatious, romantic purrs, the redeemability of the Universe - now they have consciously forced on the majority that it is necessary to live in a cage between the shallow, desolate walls of Europe; clinging to each other's shoulders, their tiger claws gnaw, and like cannibals they rest on the guts of fat-smelling moxings instead of flesh.

It tempts them regularly under the deep surface splashes; the most trusting feelings and movements seem like pontoon bridges; the howling of tame wolves can be heard in the stench of so many drunken and rebellious pubs, on the deserted alley walls of streets; in every storm and hurricane, like mad sheep, the crazy, brainwashed stupid crowd keeps clapping and it becomes less and less important who is friend and who is enemy! It would be appropriate to measure the unit of measurement of non-existent empathy and tolerance as a humane humanity!

Man, what are you doing again?! You simultaneously deny and glorify the infinite expandability, the nuclear mushroom cloud-born fate-cataclysms, which may even in seconds measure the values of Existence with the meaning of the ephemeris above your useless head; your meaningless words about how snow-white-feathered doves can still carry withered olive branches when they desire to settle and develop on new continents are shot out of your lying, preaching mass-mouth like slow rifle bullets; as if even mere understanding would give birth to a contradiction with itself, because the essential information is lost behind so much cheap, tinsel-like nonsense. Perseverance will not tremble, like a withered, rustling poplar leaf, because the diminishing chess game of its great power is sober, but unaccountable.

The foolish donkeys who want to move around are sleeping in many places. Suddenly, the crowded mountain range of kicked-out little people begins to bustle at their pleasure, the fraying, oxymoron-like skin of the agglomeration of people is increasingly skinned by the viscerally shallow, meaningless everyday calvary.

- The weak man scatters and then divides himself, since he can hardly do anything else; he endures, struggles, sweats blood, as long as he lives to be sixty or so years old, and since the pension he can give is meager and scanty even for death, he just keeps pulling the soul-killing yoke.

The Tower of Babel of the earth, like a house of cards taken from the air - prematurely -, collapses, because as the little man moves away from the spiral wheel of time, his independent, meaningful thoughts and his reasoning shrink between the glass teeth of timelessness, because everyone is tormented by the possibility of emigration under their skin, which just does not want to disappear, - in fact - would become stronger and stronger. Like two sword blades, the World is increasingly tearing its own deliberately sawn-off bird feathers...

Because now the slave and the master are equally typical; no one is given ownership rights anymore, a diluted, smooth bargaining handshake just scares you into lives and infinity. Is the current consciousness of Lack just a nonsense grotesque epochal picture, or an intentional one, which is no longer possible to fill sufficiently and with dignity?! Is it a big reckoning or who clings to the dwarf dreams of their embryonic age these days?!

The simple man now walks his fate as a slave with a household book, because there is hardly anything else left, at least here; stumbling on stone-heavy instincts, blinded reflexes, he should now serve a higher power with a tough, yet stubborn penguin-like slobber, because even the silenced mouth will sooner or later realize how much of a sucker and fool it is.

Above their heads, millions of scalpels and blades are already trembling with pure malice. Because what kind of vile, manipulative ideas brainwashed minds do not want to create a common humanism in the name of reason and free thought, which has perhaps always been considered a shortage in human minds?

A meager starvation-wage career, or a total failure?! Because it may seem that this is all that could remain; a ******, defiant lust for power, or an over-boiling pride, goes on and on, on the canvases of haphazard little idyllic dreams, pathetic filth, innocent people are constantly squeezed out by a non-existent promise, call, bargain, which may slightly ennoble the public feeling humiliated to dust. Living and witnessing people wander halfway between embodied shadows. The cunning answers of condensed anxieties cannot be measured, cannot be redeemed!

The proud light of summer, believed to be impenetrable, always seems to hide something eccentric and vile at noon; ravenous animals are sneaking around among the sapphire foliage of light trees. The foliage of peace – I fear – can only rarely be truly valid. Because the ancient footprint of certain unknownness can sink permanently into the forgotten dungeon sand at any time; the horizon soon spreads out from the souls that are moving away, because only the true All can enter the rose garden of the heart. The movement of livable economy evokes a wedding dance of desire of commanding hands and shadows. Only the blind can know the focus of vision, because the seers are becoming more and more stupid with their petty superficialities.

It would often be so simple and easy: the two angel wings of intertwined, lovable arms, like wide sails, would open, while the conceived emotion would whisper secret words between lips. Halfway between two cheap, pitiful secrets, the one-essence seems to tremble: perhaps there could have been meaning-value for the wasted centers of gravity of mutual emotions after all. In the corridors of worlds, chains of prisoners are now increasingly clanging uselessly.

Petty, selfish curses-words snap like whips on each other's heads and backs, which infect and destroy. In the depths of beating hearts, star-vaults should have flourished and opened, not only where inner instincts would have driven the weak human being. The restlessness stretched out inside now encloses man more and more permanently; They are driven by slutty desires, and they break the increasingly base rules of the game at will.

In most people, it seems that the ruthless, suspicious suspicion, the inner morphing that raises barriers, that you. need to crawl – if necessary, if not – on the edge of gaping chasms, is gradually awakening. It is no longer possible to explain everything with a series of yeses that assume everything, nos that await rejection. It would be good to let go of the excess weight nature of things as they are, let them go. Because often all that remains is the stinking mockery of silence and procrastination, the tactic of pretended, deliberate, delayed waiting, when it is not yet certain that one or the other side seems to move; the spiraling Time drags raging wreckage-lives in its wake.

Hands are still clinging to nothing, hoping for something, they are coaxing from the great whole, although in vain, because the privileged laurel now only comes to a privileged "some"; a self-inflicted loneliness has consciously ****** into itself human faces with cryptic voices, who have perhaps long since grown tired of the whole meaningless hair-raising. In the slowed-down final station between two stops, it would be in vain to discover the cheap testimony of those struggling with Being.

Because perhaps a person would do better if he only lived according to the law of Nirvana-Ninchen; no matter how much he knocks on strange doors and windows, bangs with beautiful words, with human sighs asking for help, the camp of the deliberately deaf can never hear it, because now increasingly brainwashed and stupid voices dictate the waltz, and small-style, cheap, cheerful rascals have designated After the wildly driven modern flea market, at least a hundred years of loneliness await man.