Man goes through his existence walking on the edge of nothingness, while his bones are cracking viscerally; his humiliation from slave to slave is now constantly ripening, since he has long been the petty plaything of worms and maggots. Now he would rather practice walking in place a little more stubbornly, the tactics of the guest-passenger, stripped to the bone, are straining against each other, a writhing swarm of beetles is stopping his running, because a rubbing interest would decimate, lick the big whole, from which the average person certainly gets less.

Belittled, low-lying ants fight in a noisy concert quite often, because whoever begs for a warning, calls for help or hopes is now a suspect element; This current vile Age plants dust-scattering arguments in the ranks of corruptible souls, because everything and everyone is accompanied by the fever of possession for a lifetime, the depths of the underworldly filth often disgust even those who try to tolerate the filth.

In tendered dog nests, they would tender the juicy marrow bone, which the average person can never receive, and cannot win, as some kind of deserved, simplified honorarium, or pleasing compensation, rootlessly, to the detriment of life and other accounts, and a few hearty slaps are due to those who speak up and humble themselves for remaining European and human.

And while the canings are increasing in number, they immediately ******* the homeless who are begging and begging, they have to struggle sleeplessly, like a miserable *****, with the uncertain hurricane tide raging to the point of unknown, with storks' nests, not just a whistling nickel samovar that will last another hundred years - but a century of nuclear mushroom clouds!

Happiness and perhaps even the joy we thought was certain can only blink in isolation, because nowadays everything is superficial, manipulative, can increasingly deceive, can intentionally deceive and even deceive, a plastic, unpredictable tachycardia infarction can trigger alarm signals. Nowadays, almost everything is heralding the little kingdoms of ambitious people: everyone would like to seize treasures, deals, or even unstable, fleeting reputations for themselves.

Perhaps it would be better to palliate the compromised, sufficiently stubborn counterargument, unbaked slanderous sermons, unfortunately, it is increasingly easier to plant them in souls, where there are already enough weeds growing, because everyone only dares to scratch the truer, more secret depths of existence, because they do not dare to go against the truth, honesty at all.

A few well-sounding awards, false-lying congratulations, merits would flatter the inner self - if only they could -, but a handful of the pure chemical accumulates in the human being, to cleanse the burdens of petty sins like the waters of Lethe. Halfway between the daridos of blind slanders and half-truths, rust eats away at the counterarguments that are not lazy to think; the little worm from Alamus keeps gnawing away not only inside, but also in the outside world; because the wild crowd of jerks and jerks is deliberately going around blindly and like a gang of brainwashed idiots, following a false idol leader.

Because sometimes it is better if one switches to the hard-working mole-like mode and chews oneself out of the annual rings of infected promises and meaningless false words. Because the problem is still that every worm believes itself to be a winner at the same time, when it realizes that it has already pitifully swallowed everything. Behind the scenes - even so - it often happens that there may even be time to hunt each other!

It is necessary to march blindly, panting, even stumbling lamely, like a limp, beaten dog, still here on this earth into uncertain, gloomy tomorrows. My blind, easily manipulated soul trembles at the same time, half-heartedly, lamely, because now again, more and more, seven-trial rascals, no-man's-land thieves, new Szeleburdish petty-knights of reproach are rubbing themselves to their liking, some of whom the Present makes brainwashed and infected and some are merely disordered memories.

Once again, common sense has been trampled into the mud, everything beneath it is suspicious-false, because there is no longer a chance for a sincere true word, nor for a trust that firmly questions itself. Now, even a few sheep have been raised to be sufficiently humble, herded, so as not to bite a few privileged ones. The dreamy macaw no longer murmurs a dignified yes under its botoxed catfish mouth, because first the new husband should show his checking cards and his occasional merchant wealth, which he has collected with stamps.

Now the permanent filth is still accumulating and flowing down below, like sewage laden with feces. No matter how many times that secret, inner voice speaks back in the secret cave systems of the soul, the rusting cogwheel brain would in vain grasp what it is that it can still surely lose; because secretly - perhaps - it has long been robbed of human dignity, not to mention other rights.

Error and blind faith nowadays simultaneously justify a cheater, an assassin, a robber, while the simple man would perhaps be better off hiding in the gaping pits of Dante. A person would like to be ready for a sure escape for a long time; As a wandering earthly wanderer, he would perform his selfish, begging round dances for Existence, but who can beg for his life at the same time?!

You are not and can now be totally independent; a vile, tiny worm is making its way into your flesh, like some infectious disease, a desperate, hypocritical attempt to change anything in a dignified way, a completely meaningless, pitiful series of wild instincts that have lost their wings; sooner or later, with quiet indifference, the crumbly lump that obstructs the network of blood vessels with its heavy Sisyphean rocks will just fall off your heart, so that you can prolong your life for at least twenty or thirty seconds.

Every minute, the permanent, indestructible Maya veil of transience floats over your head. Timelessness makes life uninteresting, which cannot be started anew every single day, because secretly everything remains a reflex of your selfish body, an everyday simultaneous. Like a faded, lifeless donkey skin, the pores of your skin also feel the template, the cancer of superficial exhibitionism.

As if not only the Hangman's death, but also the consciousness of loneliness, that you can count on no one but yourself, has been breathing down your neck for a thin life. Knee pain, torturing hemorrhoids, a hearty cholesterol bomb that have taken over your life; from the medium of Time that separates you, perhaps a helping hand will bend down to you, to help you up early, because a gray, old eternal child looks back at you from shop windows.

From the echoing darkness of the underworld, some secret, inner fall will begin, which perhaps only you yourself can understand; existence itself is a jungle, a withered Nirvana-desert, a riddle, which it would be good to finally solve, so that you can know and understand what your task and business is here!

My deeply hidden inner restlessness often finds me when it only walks the depths of my crouching trap-soul; Sisyphean boulders are cut first into tears, then into pearls with a buzzing, persistent work of the universal melancholy with the smell of spleen, carefully guarded. So many billions of instinct-splits of cosmic forces ready to crumble, the torn, abandoned hawthorn bush revolves like a sleepless swarm of bees, from which a camp of brainwashed idiots regularly light screaming bonfires.

My impulses are bound by Zhivágó’s gales, they would not let me go, because now I am still standing up to my waist, hesitant, often helplessly in my unfinished, ridiculous affairs, and it is no longer my mere actions that define me - but rather the devilish spasm-like convulsions of the soul, which not even the dog can hear.

With concentrated attention, I tie days together again, like the echoes of some strange coordinates, so that I can feel and know that I am going in the right direction.

Like a broken-hearted *******, I throw away the weight of my often useless memories, which still tempt me in the fangs of nights crouching in the form of my recurring nightmares: I should still hold on to myself tooth and nail, with the all-conquering holy tiger-will, as long as possible and as long as my prisoner-body allows it at all by the speeding highways of the rampant, daily changing, and worn-out cell-molecule tendrils.

It would be good to live a little longer, as if the free thought that continues into infinity, thirsting for independence, were to be rocked quietly by white silence, as if the one-Dear, who could still promise to wait for me from the far reaches of other shores. Black-eyed supplicants ring out in humming-melancholy voices while a Damocles-sword blade rests hissingly over my balding orthopedic head!

It would be even better if the given promise-word would not just settle as a hearsay deliberately in deaf ears, would cover the brainwashed brains and the cranial cavity like a beneficial ivy; in beating hearts, even so, echoing formations could still take shape, the raw dough-leaven of trust and sincerity. Everyday life has long since become associated with something sticky, nauseating, yet celebratory, but false grandeur.

In eternal fate-sabbath formulas, attraction and repulsion seem to strain themselves simultaneously; between opportunity and conscious failure, perhaps it is better for a person to choose the latter, since the conscious curse of his mortality awaits him anyway. Things just happen, but you never know why or how the answers will be.

As if every earthly step, a gathering of superficial-lying faces were heading somewhere, silver-plated stars tattooed their eternal fate into the pitch-black night like their selfish, own Apocryphal signs, while the weak man remained below with his earthly sinful burdens. The eternal weaving of Being and Time through the instinctive walls of cells is finally fulfilled.

The stuffy noisy competition of people is now shaken by the automatic, roaring rhythmic voice of machines; man could hardly be further from man now. It would be good to shed once and for all the hours of boredom, when the immortal soul, indifferently languishing, only comes to grow old within us, and, arm in arm with death and fate, but still defying, everything that could once have existed as a goal, as a far-sounding, holy will, should rumble everywhere. Because something definitive, something incomprehensible, only comes together after half of a human life, and the failure of our well-thought-out plans is thrown upon us...

In the signs of the future constellations of the future, sober mind is hardly spinning. Loose, casual mostly English-filled words go through alpine, tacom-**** style between the debris of the existing everyday language and speech; It is the only curse of eternal, spiral manifestations, as the petty, manipulative spirit of modern cyber rebellion is increasingly shaped in feverish celebrity and party-faced clone.

The XXI. The feverish science of the 20th century vocabulary will not be more than a mere pathetic ridicule, which is approached by a curved, mummy-image professor with a scientist, who is close to the principles of scientist-hitting, they are.

Now, the podium of wet cathedrals from the gluttonous hands of the crap and the gluttonous hands, just like the majority of farm schools left without central heating; After all, the quality, high-quality education for wealthier students is ducal and while hard-to-be-loyal Sagittarius Misik began to be a hole in the small town streets in the dragged Kalucsnik, perhaps, what kind of life can they still be?

A single row of compassion -certainly not many -is less and less listening to the companies of thoughtful sober, because the grinding parable is not worth it here; No livelihood life will be sufficient to become educated again not only the average mass man-but the hyena century. Cells, secret, apocryphally smell, rarely create lively action, deed, ready to develop, determined will.

With a moodlessness, only devil-cramped ******* can only rattle, digging their selfish, self-curtains; Because now it is more, while nothing is humiliated and is already humming itself on the sediment of everyday life!