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?!

Be very careful, because from your birth you can be only one of you at the gate of the Universe, where beating hearts confess their immortal oath as a sacred vow. Because you are a speck of dust in the vision-illusion of mortality and you would do better if you now mentally go through every minute of your pitiful, petty life, because maybe it will be too late when the Wheel of Fate comes to you. You would say: it would be better to finally bury every single sorrow of 40 annoying, sly years, every single spiritual wound that can be challenged, refuted - yet the memory that ponders the past increasingly prompts you to speak demandingly.

Your restless, restless Ulyssesian confusion, in the catatonies of initial apparent madness, your restless buzzing soul, that you. Those on whom I could once count and upon whom you could build your shaky, suspicious trust are no longer with you. Even today, you would rather live with the solidified point-candles of your memory than forget where you came from and where you went back then, when you could believe that man was noble and good.

You deliberately did not play a bold gamble, wanting to flirt with your fate; but what sense could there have been, when now the reward of fine words, promises and truths is possessed by usurping geneviers as a kind of intermediate laurel?! The yew-flower wings of your dreams will slowly fall into the sweet-sad darkness of oblivion if you do not take care to palliate and maintain your Alzheimer's brain with memory exercises.

– The pressure already gathered in your brain coils in many forms, like a network of secret arteries, gathers the instincts and methods of action for you, you just need to learn to listen to the rumbling voice of your inner echoes in a worthy way!

Unknown, uncertain tomorrows stomp over my head like ghosts or goblins awakened from their sleep. I often wonder: have I actually changed so much that everyone has slowly disappeared from my side, or have they just left me alone, like half-witted disabled people, or Forest Gumps who have failed, or is it the grotesque, nonsense World with which I have come to understand myself less and less?!

My eternally childish self of adolescence often competed not only with speeding cloud continents, but also with the instincts of the Universe, which lurk in the depths of my eyes, unnoticed by the conscious; vanished card houses, dream ships that have run out. And while the great Wheel of Time, which has begun to rust, is constantly grinding the spinning blind luck, like hasty fugitives fleeing from man's happy and peaceful eras.

Whom Fate has dragged so stepmotherly after the ornate, posh daridos of prom-goers, although his specific plans had a meaning and purpose, today, as an outcast, he tries to thrive on the surface of the earth with less success. Why, that all remaining human intentions are already so cursed?! I would like to faithfully investigate whether the whole thing can have any meaning at all in this turbulent anthill World, and that even once a man could not have lived here in vain, - perhaps - this is now just a piece of crap, a foolish dream, nothing more, and so our useless, burdened decades are also turning to dust.

- All bargains and laws are in vain: The World and the weak little nobodies in it never change, because it is impossible to take a worthy guarantee for its promise and word. I will bequeath my sick, tachycardiac heart-stump, like a human, traveling Robinson Crusoe, to an urn: see, I am dust and ashes!

No matter how much he tried to free himself, - he rather tolerated his slavery, he did not stand it, he did not even beat himself up with superior, scheming powers for it - perhaps he really does not want to be freed for good; he will be a shackled slave for his entire life. No matter how much he wanted to be free, the coronary veins wrapped around his sick, yet sensitive, beating heart like a murderous hog, no matter how much he tried to free himself; the paramedic was repeatedly delayed for thirty quarrelsome minutes.

No matter how much he tried to free himself, his One-Beloved preferred the diminishing goods of materialism; the temporary luxury lifestyle - no matter how much he tried to cooperate with logically constructed reasons - this ragged life was too much for a true Angelic miracle. In vain he tried to free himself from the underworld depths of placenta pits, he felt and knew: something was not and could not be right in this big World, where the calculating strong always crushes the weak, stricken with defenseless orphanhood.

In vain he tried to free himself from the majestic, prestigious university, because of his excessive education and humanistic attitude, he was advised against it, just so that he would not have to get a diploma cuma sum laude. In vain he tried to get a job in the painful interviews that increased hemorrhoidal spasms, he could hardly get a paid job.

No matter how much he tried to free himself with human-smelling, melodious handshakes and convincing promises, he was immediately ******* in a knot, like the convicts suffering from innocence, no matter how much he tried to finally escape this unfair, vile, compromising earthly existence, the secret Morse echo effect symbolizing the connection was forever cut off halfway between the railway tracks!

My friend, you better realize: if you want real gems, just look into the superstitious eyes of your Beloved, shining like real pearls, to find the eternal one-answers in the Morse code of immortal love and the Universe. Striding on the traces of Being, defying many millions of obstacles - perhaps -, only the two of you are a unified whole, because you constantly need to gain strength in confidence and blind luck-hope that wants to be renewed.

Your little people, ordinary things are not as clear as you think; some sufficiently clumsy, gibberish word-plurality has been welded together from the clumsy coordinates of repetitive, boringly repeated sets of ideas; why can't the endless night shift combined with reasoning lead anywhere?! - It seems that our constantly busy mind is already grinding away at the often uncontrollable fateful events without them. Why do you always feel that thinking rationally and logically is just vain self-deception?!

Losing your patience, giving up your ant-like diligence in a manipulable and bargain-bound way, you can increasingly recognize yourself in the series of superficial, slimy exhibitionist jokes that the infected tabloid media throws at you with understanding patience every second.

My friend! Unfortunately, be careful! We have become damaged, amputated savages, and only half-human wrecks, who have been deceived a lot, and I believe have been led astray in their gullibility. Your vulnerable heart can no longer ache only in a separate purple petal-shell, if you ask it nicely not to bleed in its aching pain. - The romantic, happier idyll, the illusion-appearance, has become a disguised fugitive. Bosch could not have painted it as a more inspired hellish, underworldly vision!

The pathetic exhibitionist worms searching the surface thought that they could find the semantic, more real meaning of how in the useless, two-dimensional power of the subconscious superego; perhaps they were no longer really interested in walling up their own petty vanity, like the Masons Kelemen and Kelemenne, who were volunteers. It would have been better if the self-evident fragments of silence had opened the rusty soul gates, where only the viscerally stripped Adam and Eve costumes mattered and not the material goods, such as: who is earning more than a million right now?!

Because the vain, stubborn person, having lost the deeply hidden, humiliated childhood that keeps so many secrets, constantly wants to look at himself only from the outside. – In the Universe before Existence, the primordial vibration, like some encrypted Morse code, still trembles all the time, invisible, but no one would notice; it would be good, like a butterfly, to pupate a little into each other's crystal-clear souls, where only honesty, unconditional nobility and goodness exist, – excluding the harmful intent of lies.

Consciousness, like some automatic machine, struggles feverishly with itself amidst the Sisyphean burdens of the burdened everyday life; our instincts have become an eternally thirsty, wounded Nirvana desert. Like a mad lapping wave, we rush after our unattainable desires, like drowning people who can be further manipulated and exploited.

You have decided: you cannot forgive anyone, because it is hardly possible to change anything anymore. You can *****, blindly, hesitantly count on one or two of your old friends and acquaintances, hoping to help you on the path of your pathetic, shipwrecked life, which – it seems – you must walk alone for good. Often you yourself are more like that, held back by conscious fear, a petty spasm of no-man's-land terror, wondering what might still await you among the wolf traps of calculating, compromising everyday life, in the company of people who are no longer even remotely interested in your fate, life, or dreams.

Soul-guts crawl out of the depths of your soul at night; your organs increasingly obey your instincts and your common sense is responsible for them alone. It would be better to escape, perhaps to the sandy, palm-tree beach of another world, where joy, harmony, and carefreeness could welcome you instead of the robot-yoke worries of everyday life. – Now you often feel deep in your soul that you have bet everything on a single well-calculated ***** deck of cards, hoping that the blind luck of the cards would favor you.

All the worries and crosses of forty years of vileness that have deliberately persisted and accumulated in you evaporate, infecting its victims like some envious poison-elixir. You could not accept the slaps of life, the somersault rules that you believed were unbreakable, it would have been good to fit keys into a thousand anonymous, rusting locks, to make the redemptive liberation openable. From your confused nightmares – it would be good to trust – that you will find your way home safely through the One-Someone!

We crowd, crowd, and even interfere with each other in ever-narrowing, gradual spaces; an eternally swirling roller coaster-calvary, like a kind of peculiar homesick Odyssey, which can be realized less and less with dignity. Our joy is only rarely, if at all, and the momentary intention of liberation is lost from everything else. The Lack, which is saturated hourly and then emptied in an infinite amount, swells and swells more and more - if necessary, if not - and from age - perhaps - it can endure less and less.

Because the return journey - if necessary, if not - can increasingly often come in one's way involuntarily, and there is no way to solve it, like a secret worldly riddle: where should one go?! - In many cases, one would rather remain a rabbit than a poacher. Many times, a cunning hand still nudges him on the back of the head, always coming up with the latest reason to outwit this present life with dignity.

Everyone is just waiting for applause, appreciation, fame; meetings with friends, acquaintances, birthdays, major disgraced, profit-oriented big holidays, celebratory parties are gradually being postponed. The holy helpless one of joys remains like this a little until the end of time, since birth is also a kind of intermediate countdown to the final passing away. Even if a person tries to break away in the end, in vain; the wild, clinging blood circulation jungle of the eternally greedy big cities grinds him down. Every heartbeat, every trembling sigh of the underworld has been marked with invisible wounds that will last a lifetime!

Now I am again where the shore is splitting in two; it would be better to finally get over – while I can – all the childish, petty donkey marches that this current digital colonization cannot even half understand, since it is not even blessed with a sense of balance, at most only with a series of manipulations, petty, delusional offers and promises. My drawn-up, increasingly torturous everyday lives, like boomerangs returning to themselves, run around, spinning the pillars of my already diminishing time.

Like a tightrope walker or artist on a half-cut, stretched rope, I am slowly becoming disappointed to the core; and especially in those who held the knife that cut my non-existent, pretended career, my intentions to assert myself. Now all I wish for myself is this: let me see through everything! Let me know and feel in whom weak evil nests, and who can even speak the honest truth in confidence!

For now it is even more of a scapegoat-error that in my shame-stained worldly soul life and withering decay coexist. It would have been better perhaps to have plunged from the intoxicating, immortal peaks of the intoxicating intoxications of the Universe into incarnation immediately, before it was too late; the enchanting redemption passed in order, but so did the certain deciphering, which could still have opened the keys to my heart battered with humility.

Now we must be more and more careful, since tomorrows stripped of the power of petty powerful ones loom over our heads, globalizing all our helplessness. In the corners of brain coils, some nuclear tensions have exploded for the umpteenth time.

A person's feet often stick out of every box they have picked up. Because people keep interfering in their lives - no matter how much they deny it -. Everyone has been burned many times by the frivolous, nagging, grotesque, hopeless Reality. It would be nice to hope even in the multitude of non-existent things, if that is all it takes for a person to start a new life, which - exceptionally - still has and can have value and meaning.

We have now become a little fed up with the fact that we have always inherited useless sermons and good-sounding hymns of praise from those who were in power at the time; The habit of being mean and sneaky really radically, oppressively settles on our already difficult, stuffy lives, like most of the slimy, slippery promises, with which the brainwashed, and therefore unsuspecting, average person can be lured in.

In the restless workshop of our lives, there is less and less room for the arrival of Universal loves, for a few eternal truer friends who brought salami bread and cinnamon milk gruel during the bitter cold; there are fewer and fewer four or five doors in this world where the prodigal, weak person can knock calmly, even at night or at dawn, because they are welcomed with welcoming love and even seated at the table without a whimper.

Everyone is a bit like the suffering superiority of those with a painful stomach ache, who already sense in advance and know what will happen unexpectedly, and they deliberately look down on those who try or those who get a foothold, just because they did not get it from the abundant interests and networks of patronage relationships. We can no longer be completely satisfied and generous with people who are confident in their superiority and who are perfectly satisfied with themselves, as they increasingly exhibit increasingly suspicious and calculating behavior, at least on the surface!

There, in the chapel rising on the small hill, where perhaps two people could barely fit, when you were brought in a carriage pulled by two apple-colored Pegasus horses; where a few diligent, busy women's hands gathered a feverish forest of flower bouquets, a rainbow flood of tired daisies strangled in wreaths - yes! There the blissful, redeeming yeses should have been said, which could only really mean something to us, since they reserved the Everything with a holy oath.

Then there should have been will, devotion, a beautifying dream - which at the same time eagerly nourishes, consumes, but nourishes - with which two beating hearts in love can finally belong to each other. You should have escaped a little while, when you did not let your snow-white voluminous veil fall to dust, with your moon-silver tiara, and a loyal protection, a protective harmony accompanying you throughout your life, which says in your superstitious doe eyes: "I have chosen you as my companion!"

- You should have arranged - only with a common will - the secret desires of immortal Fates, so that even the one-Beloved could be absolutely sure of his/her business, and doubt, suspicion, deceived temptation could not even fearlessly break the predestined bond of togetherness.

We would have clung to the plane with gazelle-like leaps, so that then on a half-uninhabited subtropical, paradise island, on a snow-white sand bed, in front of the sun's disc that wanted to set, we would have sworn in our hearts that we were beating: True, Good, Noble, so that the ragged life would take note two human, earthly stars, whatever happens, poverty or wealth, two immortal Universe-souls, now united until the end of time.

– The true word that resides in the deepest part of the heart should have been spoken as if it were the last one to be spoken here on earth: ,,If you really love, then neither Porsche, Ferrari, nor a fancy bag costing half a million, nor a castle on duck legs matters, because you feel that it is better to belong to someone than to just be floundering here and there like a luxury item for the seventh time in a lifetime.

Your children, later your grandchildren, will throw our loving instinct-egoisms at your eyes in vain; you can cry through a shower of abundant fountain pearls for an eternity, because you were a compromiser, a bargain-maker and maybe even a little coward, because you gave in to the predictable alluring power of prosperity and wealth. – Long, difficult At the end of our journeys, perhaps we will meet again, and then I will make your once golden, loving heart confess to you!

I keep turning back through the pages of my life's codex; memories, shadows of the past, even the persistent, tenacious deep layer, the poor pimples of annual rings still hint at a recurring ominous omen for my otherwise shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe life. The weight of crystal memories almost crushes me, even though I was no more sinful, foolish, or wasteful than the rest - a kind face, a good deal of good mood, unexpectedly comes to mind, because I often gain more truth from the reflections of talkative faces than from the cavernous depths of soiled, muddied souls.

In petrified depths, along with adverse trials, a few more eloquent sermons bubble up: "My dear friend! Why is this useless, worn-out life of yours not good for you?! It's true! Your bills and utilities are still in order, and even though you haven't bought yourself a new jacket, Lewis jeans, or elegant Italian leatherette shoes in ten or so years, you can still wait a long time for that sparkling toothpaste commercial smile.

Why do you behave like an orphaned light flickering in the darkness of the night, which deliberately prefers to hide its petty, selfish secrets and only glows from the inside?!" Your human attitude seems to last only for seconds, because at the same time you are attracted, but at the same time you are repelled by the sluggish, cynical indifference with massive awareness, the millennial principle of our time, since nothing changes, Existence can only seem more and more unbearable.

- A duel of spirits could not be easier, especially if the wise science of arguing is banned within radical frameworks by knowledgeable smart tonics, because they are truly terrified of the power of innovative creative thoughts and ideals. Your naive-childish, eternal Sisyphean worries and exploitability are now being played with by jerks and fools, while they splash pathetic, petty words at you halfway; be careful! It's not too late!

Don't Shed your viscerally restless life! Because you would like to reach there yourself in a worthy way, where joy and satisfaction await, and not the hustle and bustle of everyday robot work! And how good it would be there, arm in arm with your Beloved, to write the laws of the Universe in the sand!

A heart that beats for others deserves better than an empty, cold apartment. The broom of painted swallowtail eyelashes is a transparent exhibitionist curtain, where all essence is lost, because they let the echo drops of the soul be lost. Man no longer has great world-saving goals, only to finally reach a heart line identical with his split subconscious self. A beautiful supermodel-bomber is hardly noticeable, because the exaggerated body culture, the health mania, destroys and infects the levels of the Soul.

A skinned leopard fur coat - despite being an unaffordable luxury item - regularly exudes an unbearable stench; and while a manipulator is calculating with manipulative, deceitful methods, maybe he can have the biggest scam of the decade – average guys who are considered losers and suckers jump into the Danube as an internal consideration.

They are scattered around, as if their long-lost bohemian-dwelling eternal friends were mourning their second youth. A buzzing insect-circle dance – nowadays, this is all that the gigantic, principled treadmill of everyday life can be worth, because work never comes to the house voluntarily, that is the sole privilege of the big dogs and sharks; because everyone would rather look for the invisible, sure way out, while they can, hopes, stubborn illusions, foolish beliefs turn into frozen falls.

On the discarded, serviced street of Time, like occasional drunks, they stumble half-blindly one after another, the petty-murderous humiliations instilled over decades, the humility tolerated, the chasms towards which honesty and truth rush at once, since it may seem impossible to do anything with the Present!

Because now, not only the nights or the days are getting heavier and heavier, more pregnant – but the materialization that can be experienced viscerally in the world on the universal colonies of soullessness; the desire to trust, the naive-childish longing for hope – fearful – is no longer reminiscent of the whining child and his complicated adulthood. And yet, the great resistance, as a kind of disenfranchised, usurping rebellion, is only just beginning. Now, the so-called big-time usurers are just now having to sacrifice themselves on the altar of cheap, no-man's-land little paid lies.

If you get a hundred thousand as a gift, at least you'll give it back, even if it's a million and a half at the price of your pitiful head. You can still find a manageable expectation for anything with which the other can be easily influenced, and like a wax figure, you can still be pulled. A throwaway nothingness is left behind, scraped from the depths of a landfill or from the squalid filth of street corners, because – as we know – the afterlife is also increasingly vulnerable, and perhaps more vulnerable.

Every morning start is also a sure and lasting longing for a satisfied escape, that you would have to change even if you have been running away from yourself as a vulnerable shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe your entire life; you have often fallen into greater, more brutal pitfalls, like an angel whose wings were clipped. You could never take to heart the petty, petty life-and-death grip of cats and mice, because you have experienced the horrors of small, cruel amusements on your own skin every day!

Perhaps you have not yet thought about how much it weighs on your chest when you feel how and how the secret of your arbitrary weight changes before an imaginary tribunal. The wandering, opaque mass of yeses attracts you at the same time, but also weighs you down; the conscious saying no would be much more tempting. Because this current gutted, disemboweled Age, in which the individual as a creative individual has largely ceased to exist, is eating away your self-confidence to the core, with a wrinkled smile on a scattered corner of the mouth, because - as is well known - every defeat leads to misery, but never supports its victims.

The lack of the solid Nirvana-nothing would rather sweep away the rustling, melancholy limbs of Existence into nothingness; more than a million octopus claws of futility are grasping at you. Because the unknown, difficult-to-reconcile equations of emotions should be sorted out and solved, the power of calls and friendly gestures attracts even the naive-minded, because it comes from above downwards, the emptiness nicknamed permanent hangs all the way to the depths of the soul's cave.

The worst thing is that it is known: everything and everyone is overtaken from behind by the past, then by memory, until finally there may be no one and nothing left to which one once truly attached. And like a loose stone throw, the course of things falls a little every second like a whirling wedding of petals. - A sickening, nervous battle, a vow is heard: the smoldering-headed arrow of the Universe is questioning itself. As grace, mercy, redemption, it would cut through the harmony-silence in vain, like a double-edged sword that can only manipulate and manipulate with the selfish, greedy will from which it was taken.

Now I have to ponder what is, what can be thrown away, and what else can the prodigal human soul use as feelings again?! If necessary, there should be enough presence of mind, combined with honest, thick truths that ****, to understand the secret apocryphal laws of inner instincts at once; life has handed out ugly lessons, petty slaps in the face, but in large numbers, and man still cannot really understand the driving forces, since they were only roles from which chitin armor fell off, and blood, if necessary. Where is the long-cherished golden mean left, as the antidote to possible attitudes, relationships, and behaviors?!

- Now all kinds of layers are still burning in your soul, like a flickering or glowing stamp, which separates you from friends, even from your selfish-petty relatives, and would then tempt you to sin if it could. Tell me, but honestly, otherwise you have no credibility in the eyes of others.

What have you done so far, while others existed and lived, loved with love?! Numerous amoeba faces swim in the sea of ​​society; they constantly throw their colorless faces towards the germ of assertion, and if necessary manipulate, flatter and bribe, because it is in their interest that their pitiful, vile life continues for a long time, - A secret, rusting padlock has long been locked in our fate.

Who can say what more a human being should do to be happier?!

I have always wanted to listen, perhaps, when I listened only under my mother's heart, like a pitifully crouching human fetus, to the oracles that came to me through the channels of the fearful outside world; mysterious holy words, or rather telling, wise words that I did not understand for a long time, because they were covered with the hieroglyphs of reason. Like the closed seven-padlocked gates that first fall on a person, then the painful childhood finally closes; our silent mouths are repeatedly closed by the gnashing of teeth, vain crying and sobbing for nothing, because things have not changed.

In their hearts and souls, shackles and chains are stretched that cannot be cut; The doubting past asks them eternally recurring questions, like a fragment of an indelible memory that has happened, and their requests, whether they bypass the fence or just jump over it, because they regularly put their well-considered answers in the balance pans. From the challenging coincidences - fear - can there never be a completed Fate?!

Because the passage of Time is still unnoticed, silent; the fear of adulthood, adulthood, still lurks secretly in the hearts of most of us; among new paths that have become aimless, it is increasingly difficult to find the one that can mean everything to be able to move on and prosper.

Because a person is often tempted and suffocated by futile waiting. It would be good to redeem the colony of soullessness, so that even those who constantly think of themselves as a pitiful, petty little nobodies can still hope!

Man, you had better take good care of yourself, because it has become a custom in the world to court the executioner in the language of a dog nicknamed good-natured or a monkey that barks. You will remain a permanent loser of a lack of a single day. Perhaps some other solution would be useful if you remained a victim of such a permanent longing. Because you have to endure the uncertain future without admitting it.

Perhaps even the embryo memorizes in the womb that if it is born, a permanent, mortal captivity of its body and spirit awaits it, for the sake of a dubious example. Behind our hands that ask for help, there is still a lack of any kind of effective support; space or time - I fear -, it will never settle down again, because it will viscerally consume the members of the earth, its defenseless victims, because the massive house of cards built from loans and credits is growing, which will soon collapse before its time, man crawls among buried fragments of pottery in this nameless space-time, and perhaps he will not even know what it is at the hour of his death?!

The word, the promise, the oath of handshakes have become an empty shell. The sound form that sounds like reason is also becoming increasingly disintegrated, torn, we should try to think with patience and empathy and this is not taught in the so-called public sector schools, only in the Montessori ones. - The bitter wrinkles of the soul cannot be washed out in a washing machine to make it squeaky clean, like the oft-repeated "tabula rasa" - the tattooed knife marks of stars shine on dried faces, but fewer and fewer people can understand the universal messages. Because now, it seems, the antennae of thinking, scientific brains have been permanently spared on purpose.

On the edge of centuries that are spinning in time, language - I'm afraid - no longer recognizes itself; we know well that even at the dawn of modern digital civilization there are continents that are beyond the reach of God, where public utilities, internet or Wi-Fi connections, television, DVD players, Bluetooth wireless headphones, and a series of unnecessary cyber-gadgets do not exist. As if they were intentionally cut off, or just blocked, from the broad horizons of technological revolution.

The fishing-hunting-gathering lifestyle, as a kind of settlement lifestyle model - I'm afraid -, is already starting to take root in Central Europe. As if some deliberately accelerated fermenting rot had already moved in everywhere using general methods. Barren jungles intoxicate their traveling explorers. Now, they are increasingly deliberately leaving every trivial, trivial decision or fateful debate unanswered; as if they knew in advance what would happen if anyone contradicted or spoke up.

As if so many creative, harmonious thoughts should be born from stones, because the World is now a single, closed Columbus egg, which is better not to disturb or break. It seems as if everyone has deliberately gotten lost in this big, stinking, *****-smelling Reality that has neither end nor length; we constantly tell stories of suffered, survived childhood dreams that constantly return due to a conscious lack of love, according to which; we did not become superheroes, film directors, actors with sticks, or clown artists flirting with dangers, so that we would have cast out Death.

As if in our real lives we have already weighed the tiny coupons of the redeemability of Being among ourselves on a scale, hoping to hit the lottery numbers. And while we are daydreaming, we fall back into the average black-and-white everyday life of sobering awakening, where everything is flat, unfriendly and the same!

Something is now starting to surface, while thought and spirit are forced to listen incessantly in the depths of the Soul. Something would necessarily have to open the iris-retinas of the colorblind eyes, where petty, selfish, manipulative secrets lie hidden, because the totality of non-existent materials has unexpectedly-suddenly changed form and shape. It would be good if we all learned to cling to our still forgivable, foolish-childish mistakes, which could once have made us human; our tingling fingertips, like semaphore-seismic compasses, would feel the redeemable promise of the truer Universe.

Reason - even now - would dictate the vile conditions out loud in vain; the psychological smoke of permanent misery certainly already covers the brainwashed heads daily. The spiral circle returning to itself always closes, since it can return to itself; the metamorphosis should be noticed in radiantly happy eyes, which have not yet been seized by the power of disenfranchised materialism.

Man's most loyal shadow companions dissolve disembodied into the Nirvana-Nothingness, because behind it still remains the uncertain milieu nicknamed the permanent; we would like to despise our well-traveled Robinson-feet in the noise of the knocking silences, when the world has already shrunk to Omega. The stigma-stations of waiting accustomed to patience are becoming less and less understandable!

This world, which is guilty of itself, is a total, vast, devil-spasm-ridden world, as if it were squeezing out the disgraced, petty lives of ordinary people; it is littering heaps of filth on every side of the road, while its indifferent, superficial, wild-**** snobbery is gagging at its pleasure, while its brainwashed corruption is becoming wider and wider.

The form of birth, collapse, decay is now deliberately being blown away; one can still hear the interurban voice of the astronaut launched into space for quite some time: the doubled silence is now answering each other incessantly. Some people - one way or another - are constantly observing, eavesdropping, and digitally enslaving the simplified average, for whom the rules would still apply, and therefore can be extended, since the more influential and wealthy fabricate their own self-laws.

Does love, believed to be immortal, also eavesdrop on its own selfish heartbeats for another person, who - perhaps - cannot even really know how and how the other feels?! They demand cheap handshakes offering a bargain, as if this secretly entitles them to anything. - Sooner or later - they don't even notice - they shrink into silent, tiny lumps that can be easily trampled on, or even destroyed definitively.

Halfway towards the deliberately twisted Infinity, incessantly rattling devil's carts are still making deals out of vain calculation. - Even if they wanted to, they could have known for a long time: the iron teeth of Time have withered its members into wasteful souls, stranded in dust. They are the disillusioned prodigals of this present existence with lowered feathers, who deliberately do not want to live as they should, since they have become paralyzed in nervous spasms from what the media splashes in their faces in seconds. Because it is hardly possible for the average person to dignify himself from the arms of conscious, calculating scavengers!

Perhaps one day we will rise from the deepening pits of penniless bad manners, of deliberately provoked wild-**** Tahoeism, into which we were pushed primarily by more famous, word-wielding people as a kind of primitive, bargain-making, compromising corduroy. We will jump up like the hopping, modest grasshoppers from the watery, swamp-smelling puddles of assertion. One day we will safely jump to our feet from the webs of everyday propagandistic lies, in which we have been lying increasingly indifferently and sluggishly for many decades now;

We listened to the pleasant yet utterly false and ambiguous words of "the fence will be made of sausages" and how we had to constantly mock sports, because anyone with just a single, unnecessary lump of fat or a crackling fat-snag is not worthy of being friends with or accepted as a human being. Whoever said "what is in their heart is in their mouth" was first given a deliberately reduced salary increase, later his invisible bonus, cafeteria, and vacations that only existed on paper, and later they just beat the poor unfortunate man in the face with a broken jaw or two.

Maybe we'll get up one day, if we don't just lie there quietly, if we've had enough of the fast-acting brainwashed rascals who have reduced us to - we're often at the point where, with the push of a single nuclear red button, even professional magicians can make half the world disappear, just because the interests of the great powers demand it.

We'll rather repaint the hypocritical posters of cynical, skeptical poster forests into some kind of still-life-scented idyll, where, with an idyllic mood, everyone down to the last human being can be happy and satisfied at any time; later, we can proudly, perhaps with a shrug of the shoulders, make the secrets public, so that the newly objectified facts, actions, and consequences can be researched by the wellheads of future ages who want to think!

As if aiming, huddling ever closer to the wall; he draws his superstitious eyelashes into a slit, thus peering at the deceived, continuously manipulated world. Forced to constantly measure the shortest distance between sincerity and lies, he measures, like some eccentric arbiter, the weight of the stake, which is a nest of betrayals and lies. Backwards in the stream of eternal moments, thinking himself over once more, he decides to look away after all. Inside, in the secret depths of his soul, he still keeps his seeing eye open; he still faithfully preserves the ability to see truly, which is not polluted by materialism or superficial exhibitionism.

He knows and suspects: only in the depths of the soul can the romantic dance of the one flame take place, which he has perhaps dreamed of his entire life, - he would immediately regain it if he could have that second of memory that was still liberated and free from everything, because inside there is an irresistible power over instincts and emotions, even the silent, mute human words, which do not need to be spoken at all.

- Like a desolate cauldron, the creative silence surrounds him, which - nowadays - is increasingly difficult to gain in a dignified manner. Like interstellar frontiers, humility and will would lie under a giant dome for days; melancholy, meaningless, petty worries and troubles swim in a large carnival crowd, like so many fish embryos in a crowd. He will slowly and subtly consume his spirit, every drop at a time, if he is not careful, because truer human stars are patiently waiting in the garden of golden hearts for them to be admitted.

Halfway between my two hands, perhaps, that certain bottomless, lasting disgust will still splash out, like when the diligent, eager patience picks beetles from the emerald leaves of pleasingly grown potato beds, so that there will - hopefully - be no more problems with the crop. As if they were slippery, exposed slug bodies, as if they did not want to understand that they too have their place in the cyclical order of nature, as in the ranking of ecosystems.

These heatwave days greet us now in idle, sparkling whiteness; black cannibal laughter is heard surprisingly close, as if it were the howling of greedily starving wolves, who are not afraid of the cheap anger of hunters, nor the terror of lightning rods.

- A universal age of unbridled debauchery, like a test of floods, as if it wanted to inject itself into the smallest, almost micro-millimeter poles of man, from which there is no escape, but - true - hardly any salvation. Because between pores there is still inevitably hiding, and secretly and cautiously fleeing some inner misguided memory, refuge: the hanging of eyes without perspectives towards the uncertain future.

Man would almost constantly try the nerve endings of sluggish indifference, beneficial infarct-shadows nestle richly in his heart, while he receives a small pension for the time being. Nothing will come of Mak's captivity, because something is preventing him from doing so and will no longer allow him to exercise even the simplest of actions, which wouldn't hurt if it could continue for another twenty or so years!

Why is it still true that stars with silver arrows are struggling above my head in spiderweb light? It's a very, very whitewashed sky. In the shadow of emerald-scaled cypress leaves, perhaps Someone-Someone may still be waiting for me. From the tired cave of my selfish sadness, a somewhat concerned grotesque-distorted face stares back at me; it still wants to decipher the complex meaning of life, and enjoy what is still possible.

As if tamed joy, happiness too, were an ugly, hunchbacked little clown, which we can possess only in the small degree of moments, the peacetime Ariadne's thread of memories would flicker above our heads incessantly, if we let it be carried away by action, zealous deed, determined will. It is often easier to believe the tale of conscious exclusion, because then it is true that no one bothers us. It would be better to patiently and wisely cherish the web of interconnected superstitious glances, and rather to constantly look: what secrets and messages might the other person's golden heart hold?!

- Radioactive sighs can now even reach the sky. - Because the future is now an increasingly uncertain, deliberately salted, barren desert, where only the influential can have the sole privilege, while the little people are crushed, robbed, and what is even more merciless: they are trampled like vile little grains of dust. Instead of a moving, limping, dwarfed nobody on the shoulders of others, the many limping, fake-tinny fools create illusions of crosstalk; Nowadays, there are fewer and fewer people who still understand that it is not the meager promise of destinations that tempts people towards miracles - but the visceral beauty of the bumpy, challenging road section itself!

In the middle of the night, brooding, searching for the wings of blind, uncertain instinct, I boarded the roller coaster of my memories; I circled around in a listless spiral, while halfway through creaking, missed, scattered sighs, I searched for eternal names, who were once by my side. The questions that remained silent, eternally to be decided, never came to an answer: who chooses whom on the tiny scale of glass-shard loves, and whether an intimate, fulfilled flirting moment can be a red or black dot?!

Somewhere secretly, perhaps, a warning bell is already beating wildly in my brain: "Wake up to reality, because - perhaps - the next day you may find yourself other determined, half-hearted acquaintances and friends who will not even accompany you to your grave!"

- It would be good to have some kind of encouraging, comforting encouragement before the long journeys, which I mainly prepare for when dubious magic words or nice deeds lead me astray, just like the well-sounding promises. Perhaps it would have been better to lock everything up in the hourglass of dreams, because time is valid - I can't believe it - counting down, rolling back.

Resounding blessings are still squeezed halfway into the conscious rhythm of monotony; because like an old, unexpected hurricane-storm, sooner or later I had to face the irreversible, bone-crunching old age, which - a pity also deny -, a kind of socially unspoken uselessness, when even a dog is not interested in humans. A distorted-looking World conceived in petty manipulations, with creaking defiance, with my head bowed, I would rather remain in my soul free will, if it is no longer possible!

You see, you split the dawn with your bewitching beauty at once, just like the blood-red dragon-dusk; the latent flood of measured psychological weakness is already beneficially strangling you. Now all actions and thoughts are as crystal clear and clear as the scalpel blade or the masterpiece of the samurai sword, which never fails, only allowing seven heartbeats before it finally strikes. You see, the crouching, disgraced shadow spots of nights, like thirsty or greedy lead ores, goblins, crouching in their disappointment, waiting for their turn, because - but it often happens - not only the love of the Universe, believed to be immortal, but also selfish self-deception, is decaying into barren buds.

The ex-Dear greeted us with a mischievous smile embroidered in the sunlight, but many times, while our hearts only beat and trembled in unison. He broke the plaster of the holy moments he thought were eternal halfway, because as a result of the breakup, the Fate line of destiny was finally broken. You see, you use yourself again and again, if you still allow compliments and romantic confessions to be created and pickled under your lame tongue, even as an unfortunate, stupid sucker, your humility does not exalt you - but often it rather tramples you a lot, if you deliberately do not want to be careful.

The attractive, shining wedding rings of the eternal Infinite, which you have heard about so much, can hold deserved happiness and creative harmony, even for those who have rarely had a second chance, have been returned to your palm. Now you are like the shoreless, homeless shipwrecked person; The *****, difficult everyday life creeps up on you with cautious steps, burdening you, and you yourself do not know when the weakening lamps of your tired eyes will see sincerity and truth in the other; only the Time with the smell of the Executioner keeps your orphaned thoughts with you. - You still look at how the angelic mother leads her toddling child, and the eternal child often speaks to you in self-examination: "Why did you give up the well-deserved redemption of so many comforting, comforting hugs and caresses?!" - Your answers - at least for now, there are none, only the slimy, sticky self-preservation.

Something lurks, a strong amber vortex sips and snorts, ******* out our life force; the remainder of our time doomed to mortality. Our shipwrecked days are dwindling at insane supersonic speed. As if it were no longer worth looking for new uninhabited Odysseus shores, where an oasis of peace and tranquility reigns unceasingly. The modern mass-man seems to be deliberately rushing towards his own uncertain Destiny, and does not intend to stop for a moment to ponder.

On the often merciless swing of life, everyone clings to the future in this way, it almost doesn't matter, since mortality was already decided at the moment of birth, so if we consider it unique, unrepeatable and finished. Fate is now certainly insurmountable and it is not really worth making peace with it, - thirst grows greedily and willfully in those who still choose the bare, visceral life. Whether life is a dream or a secret borderline of half-awakeness, Time unfortunately does not heal in the end, at most it can only alleviate the stigma wounds we have suffered.

- It would be nice to have a secret door cut into the wallpaper, where we can safely hide, deliberately selfishly tearing ourselves apart, and no one can ask meaningless questions about why we stayed inside, deep down we are all a little eternal children against absolute, strict adults. Sooner or later, the trace of grief is drawn on faces; let us still experience a pause of rest, even if - often the monotony and the curse of solid indifference flatten us.

The angel you once called your One-Beloved fell by deceiving himself through the Universe he believed to be immortal; her knees were scraped by the hurtful Martian ****, while her winged, sandaled ankles were adorned with an attractive tattoo as hieroglyphs. Her radiant star teeth also fell out one by one thanks to the laser teeth whitening he was so proud of and could be proud of. She hid his sincere heartbeat, because he could slightly believe that he had built an eternal city of sincere feelings in her heart.

Her inner gut instincts crowned her queen, but not for long, because where unfair possession emerged, the cosmic radiance woven from the soul could be felt less and less, when soul and heart became one. Her bronze-brown skin, caressed by the exotic island of Bali, was covered with sun-spotted scars; he thought that if he lost herself in the love she imagined to be immortal, you could later forgive her selfish tyranny to the true flesh, but he failed to steal herself back into you.

- Perhaps his only problem was that he always compared herself to others, made herself dependent on others, while he often forgot about herself and his personal differences of opinion. It would have been good to lie down in the rich creative filling with sincere will into the depths of harmony-silence and there to explore the primordial secrets of the soul with her heart's desire. - Later, perhaps she suspected that the permanent pit-abyss into which he voluntarily fell leads to a secret corridor-labyrinth, which everyone needs to cope with for themselves.

It is dangerous to investigate with suspicion not only the small, seemingly insignificant bagatelle secrets of the Universe - but also to observe from the secret corner of the eyes the apparent tricks of the present Reality as if nothing had happened. Blind luck can escape from the hands of a person who has started to get holes at any time; the momentary joy and happiness are so imperceptible, barely perceptible, like some strange, inexplicable series of states.

As soon as a person meets an individual who seems to many people, it is better to observe everything in detail; from the culture of debate to the logically constructed coordinate systems of reason. "Some" who are still driven from within by the greedy, visceral career appetite will fall into fertile traps, to spend more and more - hopefully - at the expense of others. Why did we have to experience that even the false sincerity of love, affection, and feelings can be replaced at any time, can be put into Procrustean beds?!

Increasingly, inevitable decades of unstable sandcastles may await us, which have neither end nor length, because in a somewhat nightmare-like way, one can imagine that one is spitting in one's face every second, and the universal **** is now less and less able to be wiped away. One always overdoes it, but at the same time pushes the degrees of misunderstanding too far, because the outside world no longer reacts to it as it should; empathy, tolerance, solidarity - I say so - have all degenerated into meaningless, shallow words. Instead of providing help, general A grimace turned into a raised eyebrow.

The smell of coffee makes you feel nauseous and nauseous, like it's another lice day that you have to start somehow!

Man - even if he tries to be careful - wears the tattooed black stripes of days and nights; he will notice that he falls back without a trace into the paradise of silent stealth, to remain a little invisible or even unnameable in semi-incognito. The total chaos of indefinability is now increasingly trying to become a part of conscious everyday life, but not for long.

That man is now increasingly surrounded by crooked, interrogating mirrors, which keep the vile cult of superficial, meaningless exhibitionism still trendy and fashionable. If necessary, if not permanently, a talkative, sloppy noise swirls. Being - often - is also a fussy, irresistible One, because the cobweb of conscious oblivion would surround it.

The busy, upside-down decade is also more likely to sharpen sword blades and train atomic bombs; no one remembered, perhaps didn't even really think about, the red buttons that would trigger, or even the snapping trap of parentheses. Only suspicion, the ancient suspicion lingers for a long time, like someone who has secretly stopped in the doorway of a deserted, garbage heap; a crypt-smelling, cadaverous shadow still looks back and forth. Because the game of life seems to have been arranged on the chessboard of birth, and the straw puppets that can be pulled only hang here and there between the strings of Time, which they cannot yet understand.

Man remains more and more closed in on himself, because he knows exactly that out there in the World - fear - that with education and professional knowledge it is not certain that he would be able to do anything, although he may know: but it would be good to shake off all unnecessary ******* from himself completely, but his soul cannot open its rusty keys anytime.

As if a misunderstood, caressing-whining moment were reflexively trying to cover up the clear, tangible confusion of memories, even the forced immobility is increasingly obvious, but malleable. The entire outspoken holy will is merely a childish, weeping insubstantiality. Cognition is - from now on - only possible instinctively.

The unpredictable, unexpected turns of tragic Fate; an accident or tragic loss; the rebellious devotion of misunderstood actions. As if Nirvana-nothing were only the perfect lack of completeness; no one takes the masses of people on earth as a waste, like a pillar, around Atlas's neck like Sisyphus; thus the waves of sluggish indifference come and go unnoticed over one's head. Why is it necessary to cling to waiting or to possible fulfillment at all?!

Although - perhaps - it involves stigma-pains, soul-thorns, it is still better to openly say what the burning, restless heart wants to speak in its inner shell. The secret laws of existence could not be deciphered with the logic of an aerial gymnast; one could search here, or on Cape Verde, or in some icy Arctic Circle, because the inner Odyssey-restlessness is what boils and enlivens the marriage of one's excited blood molecules in its eternal insatiability. Often the ruthlessness believed to be solid is both useless and merciless if one does not pay enough attention to it.

The vomiting, petty tragedy of moods is an endlessly sorted, useless debris, which perhaps even the One-Beloved cannot possibly embrace and understand as complete perfection; it is increasingly difficult to elicit even the most profound compassion from total strangers! A stray, hygienic heart attack gets a complaint-euphoria!

It seeps into human flesh, like chitin armor, because what started out beautiful and noble is constantly being torn apart; first love and only then the Universe believed to be immortal. For the secret, sacred-vowed eternal smile of two eternal bodies, as in the labyrinth of ineffable pleasure, forgetting about homesickness, unconscious floating, lasting weightlessness-intoxication begins. We will be doves and pigeons in the wake of the moon-spring, who simultaneously hold olive branches and perhaps rings, as circular, indestructible symbols of infinity.

We let each other into the home of our souls confidentially, because unnecessary words were not so necessary; a kiss caressed juicy fruits between sun-fluffy lips. The campfires of our hesitant hands are still faithfully preserved - even after twenty or so years - by the rays of trust instilled in sincerity. - Between our fingers, but often for moments of rest, only the sand of our Time has been spun through, with which we wrote footprints on the beach. The summery, light wind occasionally catches in our capricious seasonal words spoken to each other.

Like when we hunted for shells in the heart of the oceans, and the horn armor jealously guarded a true pearl. As if after so many years, we are still only learning, groping for the concepts of the uncertain Fate, which was intended for us alone as a gift; as if we were forever moving away but also approaching each other in rhythmic beats. We are forced to latently put to sleep our feelings for each other, since the breakup - who knows why? - is still hanging in the air. From our busy lives, repeated memories emerge!

The honest-true would still burn in man - even if only half, or in captivity of crossroads. He should not give up or let go of his convictions, wherever this unfair, wicked-comic milieu may carry him. His eternally restless, petty, eternally peaceless soul would be so good for some kind of momentary redemption, from which he could still build and perhaps start a new life. Bars and cages stretch around him, while his constant kilometers of walking are tied to the shackles of his sickly legs, or even a vile physical disease.

- It is known: a hundred, and a hundred years quickly pass and where does Zhuangzi's imaginary dream of the fulfillment of the happiness he has found, like a kind of Nirvana-idea striving for perfection, remain? He bows his forehead in repentance before his distorted reflection in the mirror; like a sinking Saturn waiting for the mortal Jericho trumpets of doom to ring into his deliberately deaf ears; he is seized by a consuming guilt that in a given situation he did not dare, perhaps did not want to act.

Man often stands hesitantly on an empty horizon, because he feels that he should turn his life, which is rather doomed to mortality, back into non-existence; he sees daily how the World dismantles, destroys itself, crumbles to pieces. The Soul, like a secret, special mirror, can take on a new body in someone else, the metamorphoses of immortal Beings are greeted in a single movement, or in the comfort of embraces, as when the corpus turns into a silent, echoing cave, where the seeds of instinct are still created and conceived.

Because sooner or later man deliberately retreats towards his own future; he is unable to do anything with uncertainty; to formulate, to understand the hidden Morse codes of reason. - The snarling Cerberus jaws of beasts can rarely be closed forever by the historical century!

Because the unfair giggle, the nagging anger, is growing more and more - not only in the heart - but also in the darkening tunnels of the mind, then it clings to the inner instincts and senses of the person and surrounds him. Our words of apology also convey total disgust towards the otherwise completely superficial outside world. The gaps of fear in our panic are deliberately clogged with a hidden, yearning sigh for something nobler and better.

We don't know why, while others are rising on the petty, compromising ladders of such and such appreciation, the average person is sinking more and more, as if tons of lead weights were hanging on his feet.

The filth and the pile of objects that the light, summery wind is blowing towards you from somewhere are becoming increasingly intoxicating, and perhaps it is better if - in many cases - you say no instead of your unnecessary promises of yes; they splash the ancient driftwood of slander on you, because sometimes the scapegoat on duty comes and goes, and anyway someone has to do this too.

The suppressed joy of speechlessness would often be so good to release as pure spontaneity to the waves of the troubled and restless soul... Those who want to get anywhere at all may have to wait for a long time with throbbing throats, because people are pouring twenty thousand into sold-out concerts and festivals, and there is really nothing to see there except the faces of the party-goers. The stuffy buzz is becoming more and more crumbly, like low-fat pet food that has already gone bad.

Because in the flesh-purple ***** cavities - I fear - the bonfire of spark-spinning creativity no longer flies here and there. Bravely competing with troubles, quarreling and helpful Fate, where are you now?! Where have you hidden yourself, that it is impossible to even sense that someday, even with the existence of possibilities, everything will improve and even a weak person will voluntarily improve his selfish self!

Someday I will find out where your bumpy, misunderstood Sisyphusian path would have taken you, if you had had enough girlish, daring, determined will to stay with me; beyond the clever and troublesome quarrels of life, like someone searching for a secret Apocryphal riddle, I once followed you, while, deceiving my wounded heart, I believed that the immortal Universe would hold us by the hand forever.

Following your tiny thirty-two footprints on the snow-white sandy beach, when you sacredly insisted that we wait until the mother turtle lays her eggs and crawls back into the foam with silent sloth-indolence, - then I dared to believe that perhaps even the chain of meaningless connections can have meaning after all.

What a pity it was when I called you on my mobile and you spoke into the channels of the invisible ether in a sleepy, languid voice, whereupon my eternally childish soul began to hope again: "Hello... here you go..." - I was a bit like someone who deliberately daydreams on the way towards the foggy visions of unreachability.

In the corridor of my dream, you held my trembling hand with loyalty, like an enthusiastic guide, and you led me through the dark and desperate situations towards the grasping of opportunities and promises - now you have shrunk to a point that wants to get further and further away, and I don't know if I will ever see you again?! The molecular vacuum of guts and instincts is pulling you further and further into itself, into some unknown empty distance, from which there may be no possible way back.

Lazily and self-forgetfully you would melt away in mischievous laughter, when you got your breakfast in bed every morning, leaving a host of crumbs, so that you can stretch out your limbs that have started to become stiff like a nimble exotic cat - this is where we should have gathered our shared memories, because you gave your word. I wonder how many more times the sick heart will beat before it can find a home and shelter again?!

CAVE OF BROKEN SELF-MOSAICS

Who knows how long it has been since you could not be whole?! Like a puzzle mosaic, I try to put you together with increasing difficulty, until Time flows halfway between my misguided fingertips; even then, the Sisyphus-heavy task could be eased quite calmly a little. In the cave of your soul, besides the emptiness nicknamed permanent, the conscious awareness of lack also digs deep, according to which: How and how should you act, so that you can tolerate those who constantly surround you and the great, sluggish, cruel world, which has been laying eggs on your ideas from the beginning?!

More and more people are playing deceptive games with you, manipulably unnoticed, and - I fear - what is absolutely irreversible cannot be reversed, no matter how much loyalty or all-conquering humility may struggle. You have turned to spiral paths of dislike - not only out of necessity, but because life with a capital letter, of which you are unfortunately a part, has brought you this way.

You could barely control your inner, untamed instinct; your hurt childish self-esteem suffered geller wounds in seconds. No matter how much you tried to rein in your scheming genies - I fear - they would be the ones who would trip you up first, or just keep kicking you further down the donkey ladder of existence as they please - your harmful demons are struggling because they are rootless, and you cannot understand the Morse code ciphers of the Self that has not yet betrayed you. Fate is now an even more lurking beast into whose eyes the uncertain present forces you to look wolfishly several times a day!

GORDIAN KNOTS OF SHIPWORTHY SOULS


Perhaps it is no longer possible, and there cannot remain such a restless, compromising night, when my soul, wandering like a free bird, would leave the prison cage of my straggling, shipwrecked body and set out on a journey; because I ponder a lot, I grind my own tightrope-walking, eternal-childish nerve: how and how could I have come to trust people who, with a light wave, tricked me over the fence and I have not looked back now, to see if that unfortunate chubby Don Quixote who didn't give a **** about the dog, who I am, lives or dies in this melancholy, indifferent decade?!

My increasingly stubborn, firm silence may still contain aborted fever dreams, if gold could be pressed from the treasure-seeking soul, perhaps even ordinary people could be much more satisfied and richer - of course, if we do not count the exaggerated outlook on life of the material mass consumer society. Halfway between petty soul traps, only one counterargument may remain in my favor: somewhere, perhaps, a little hope for me to still want to live may still be stirring in the envelope-dark seas of placentas.

Now it doesn't hurt to take care of myself, because no one else will. The world is now increasingly the domain of creeping ****, and of more base, two-faced worms, on a secondary, dispensable basis. Their stinking vulture-dog-mouths deliberately absorb the creative-inspiring treasures of culture and knowledge, which are then condemned to destruction by a whole series of brainwashed sermons, so that we never have to think about it. We gradually throw away the distinguishable quality marks of our personal humanity; Fate casts its concentric circles one after another, like a large fishing net over our unsuspecting, naive heads; the eternal baton of life and death - perhaps - is often one and the same!

Your Shadow - if you believe it or not - continues itself, and sooner or later perhaps it will return to itself. The small pulses of conscious mistaken doubts in the music of your fingertips, if the Universe were to play flirtatiously with you. Just believe that there will be a tomorrow when everything is right and everything seems perfect. No cheap, mediocre, small-style insinuations, no series of car scoldings in the traffic jams of the heat wave.

Faithful and true love does not need to be raised as an altar gift from the Darius treasures of palaces on duck legs. The ****** features of simple understanding should be universally, necessarily strived for; with a stubborn, compromising, quiet English farewell - perhaps - you are worth nothing if you do not say what really lies in your heart and soul.

One day you will understand, as an old greyhound, that memory and magic constantly echo within you; the secret Apocryphal order of complex things that have happened and can happen, which only you can safely decipher. On the floating threshold of immobility, like in the pearly foam of the seas, it is as if gravity ceases if you meet those who could rightfully like and love you. The wounded heart preserves fragmented wingbeats, and it would be so good if the Beloved knocked on your door three times.

The scars that change without concepts still remain with you, because somehow you would have to remember them a little; the promises that smell of handshakes towards the future run away in your hands, a little just like the vain flirting intentions of promised help or amorous fluttering of eyelashes. One day, before you know it, you'll be saying goodbye to your sure return!

The falling twilight of arches still breaks through the balcony of the dusks; a few orphaned beams of light drift, the barks of dusks crackle on the branches of the trees - even the former loving hearts are shackled by the wedding songs of the birds. Rushing contacts strain against each other, until even the beginnings that were thought to be planned end in total breakups.

The established form and movement, which once seemed so homely, become formless. In our wakefulness, we listen to the talking shadows whispering greetings, sneaking unnoticed here and there; with a butterfly soul, it is perhaps increasingly difficult to truly get to know someone, because it does not let itself be deterred by superficial exhibitionist frills.

- The conscious dream of insignificance seems to have long been an integral part of the calvary of our everyday lives. For the petty Odyssey of ever new futility is also the homesickness of longing, which once belonged to every man. The garden of despised silences is watered with tears of childish sadness; one should not possess the power of inexorable surrenders - but one should understand their meaning.

Truth-telling honesty maneuvers in a boat among inescapable mistakes and perhaps even itself cannot know how it should learn from its mistakes and the set of its failures... For it is known: every Shadow of Times is only an empty phrase-dream, if it cannot be realized tangibly. We must increasingly uncertainly maneuver ourselves through the turbulent waves-murmurs of existence. - It is not certain that it is possible to cling to the uncertainty of seasons. The compulsion of reality has also become inexplicable; in the discovery of ourselves on journeys, homesickness is just as tense!

I scraped together the broken-tile memories of my eternal-child Hayden Coldfield adolescence; my broken, restless peace is periodically disturbed by a stray mushroom cloud, a nuclear beam of light. Faceless Gorgon prisoners mingle in the corridors of moving footprints, as if they were constantly anxious, convulsing over what is rarely possible to bring back, since it was lost long ago.

In the eternal birth-movement, I prefer not to scatter the seeds of my goodness that I believed to be solid, because the Universe has both led and deceived me. I know: sooner or later, that certain Someone who loves me for myself will find me in secret; I would fall asleep in the honeyed lap of a rocking dream, like a child asking for a mother, because stones longing to bear witness no longer only wait on the snow-white sand of beaches - but I would also have to be able to find a safe way out of the labyrinthine cave system of the soul.

Every movement of the Beloved left me with an endless, snow-white tremor; as he danced at the blood-dragon glances of twilight, when the waves and murmurs of the sea become one with the expanding horizon, and the ebb and flow of heaven and earth are faithfully grouped into a single center. From our bodies - even after twenty or so years - the solid Shakespearean farewell of our timelessness shines. For destruction always follows a little from the innocent beginnings, which at the beginning of Time the old woman Pakas released above our heads; devouring wolf-traps remain beside us, which it is perhaps better not to step into.

- I must endure the legal, calculating filth of evils - at least, for a little while longer - if I want to remain a man in the depths of crooked mirrors, and not a defenseless Sisyphus!

Only the exhibitionist, almost completely unexpected intimate revelations of reality; the secret, Apocryphal dialogue of the eyes, when the eternal child lurking within us opens the closed soul doors, because in his curiosity he himself wants to peek in a little - yes! Only these small, trivial in their insignificance, commonplaces are able to touch us alone. It is imperceptible to get close to the other in such a way that trust is still dependent, but is already moving along better and better paths towards it, so that it can reach its goal and reach a haven, because it has always been necessary to resign oneself to the current state of unchangeable things.

Even the deepest rabbit hole cannot be comfortable enough for a person to be able to adapt at all. The urban, unnecessary noise is increasingly oppressing its members, because they are not able to look into themselves with enough loyalty, while they can.

Dreams are also increasingly denied only to the average person, since the privileged are able to manipulate even their own dreams; a very tiny, tiny little girl with a Barbie doll who is constantly being pulled and dragged by her lady-model mother, because precious Time is not for her - but for profit and profit, and because of this, her entire childhood is punctured and damaged.

Now we have increasingly learned to sneak through loopholes, stealthily, and live unnoticed, so that no one else suffers the unspeakable damage of our existence here on this earth; we are forced to nod unnoticed, because no one else would have undertaken the backstage cleaning of toilets in Vienna, but with a mirror shine. Meanwhile, it really didn't even occur to me when a person had truly humiliated themselves?!

Like a deepening wound, our still faithful dreams are full of childish nothingness; someone wants a new family house, which - for the sake of variety - has already been installed with central heating and electricity, while another wants a new four-wheel drive SUV, which is a complete extra. A fairy girl with flaxen hair wants to eat fried meat, because even though she is over six years old, she still cannot know what it is, what it tastes like, or what it looks like.

Life is increasingly expandable, but it makes vague concessions and bargains to individual people, which they immediately cling to out of necessity, although they often cannot really understand why they could not move forward on a given social and esteem donkey-ladder.

- A cunning, mischievous, distorted reflection stares into full-length curved mirrors: as if it now wants to deliberately interrogate, to extract something from the person's inner soul, saying: ,,Well, old boy! Let's see! Why are you where you are, or why are you slowly vegetating below the bare minimum, when all our levels can be faked and are so low?!"

- Of course, no one accepts an answer, and perhaps they don't even hope for one, because it's unnecessary, some disgusting, ordinary false-lying tinsel hangs there, tenses in the musty air. They've twisted the slovenly, indifferent disposition - if it even existed - at all. - Perhaps the Present would also seek a human scale, if it still knew what it would be worth trusting in, there would be close, calculated, hesitant lingerings in Time, because now there is the greater lottery of luck to be decided. Fractional sentences of common repayments are torn out on the heads of unnoticed people...

People now only take one step forward, on a rope without a net; they rarely pay attention to their precarious balance - in their calculated manipulative movements they still listen to the gears clicking in their brain, the pressing impulses of their steps, even the blocked calm. Perhaps they should practice the appearances of reality in their dreams, which are still tangible. With their prosthetic teeth grinding, they would rather greedily eat fried meat or fish fillets without bones.

People will probably never be as low as they are right now, and they will never be able to reach a certain middle-class standard, because from their meager salary they can only pay their debts forever, endlessly. - Their contemporaries are sighted colorblind; perhaps they don't even want to see and notice what the Present projects before their eyes with its telephoto lens. This is how they manufacture their buried excuses and carry them as guilt. Even the nothingness of everyday life is increasingly stared at with increasing fury by brainwashed, wild idiots.

Nameless snakes writhe under their feet, because it is a dethroning emptiness, and unconscious indifference would just as easily scratch out each other's eyes today, because it can do so, that all its misdeeds remain unpunished; the past useless years knock on stilts above their heads, because birth repeatedly counts down the meager life. They push the scenery of a bad conscience before their eyes, because they have to scaffold around the canvases of action and will with false words and promises. It would be good to neutralize the intended germs of evil every now and then!