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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halfway between heaviness and conscious cracks, not only the power of action and will cracks, but also a little of the uncompromising humility; the awakened self-consciousness would need to hear the inner wave-rumble of the Soul. Outside, drunken wasps are fighting over each other's squirming prey, drilling holes in the rich, juicy career fruits, thus radically limiting the realizations of completeness reserved for simple average people. Nowadays, fewer and fewer people can understand the broken string of truthful, sincere tears, the appearance-Reality seems to fall back into itself, and the emotion is corruptible.

The constant nervousness vibrating on the irises can also increasingly infect the persistent, ineradicable suspicion, which, like glue, really functions as an adhesive, even in the breakable appearance-exhibitionism, but it would be good – at least – to kick it in earnest every now and then. Only the persistent humming, murmuring of deafness in the tiny canals of hearing ears, which are no longer really worried about the fifteen decibels, but the general lines of informers and traitors, who, like silent accomplices, give each other the openable handles on the doors of offices that are thought to be closed.

On the neon signs on the dilapidated firewall, the ashen faces of some celebrity starlets still shine brightly, though not for long, because the moment one actually meets them, the cheap, tinsel-like pedestal that once surrounded the auras of personality, raised to light years, suddenly collapses. – Now they still tolerate the presence of silent listeners, nicknamed permanent – but be careful – maybe not for that long. It is as if one would now deliberately close the iron gate of raw silence on oneself, not letting even one's closest relatives in, who have known one since one's shipwrecked childhood.

How should you live your life better?! More than eight hours of your time is spent on the teeth-gnashing torment of general, but unrewarding work, of which – not much – is the overhead, and your pension is not sure to last you for the rest of your life. Three hours are spent just explaining to your kind of mouthy, adored wife with prehistoric methods why you can't go on vacation to the Maldives or the Seychelles even three or four times, because due to restrictions, even the free beaches of Lake Balaton have been largely closed to the simple, poorer classes of people. You tear your hair out like a petty, notorious neurotic, who – perhaps – is no longer sickened by a system, but by the many petty, bribeable puppet-men and puppet-deals, due to which this whole mess of filth is managed as a whole.

It might be a shame to replay the memories of petty physiological situational slaps and falls; otherwise you wouldn't get much out of it. Your beloved love suddenly announces: She's had enough of you, and that you've turned into a vile, worthless *******, unfortunately through no fault of your own, since there were layoffs at the multinational company where you've already spent about fifteen or twenty years.

How are you supposed to live your life better?! You don't even know, because in the meantime, your aorta seemed to burst due to an almost fatal heart attack, and your coronary arteries could use a lot of heavy and massive repair. You might still dare to act, but not only your life-walls, but also your Me-Time are being closed in a vile and wicked way, mainly by celebrities who constantly only understand the permanent sensation-*******, and of course they are paid handsomely.

Your youngest daughter mostly doesn't even want to know you anymore, because if you don't pull the ******* yoke of misery, and while you're in line for some baked goods in a supermarket, your daughter demands Barbie and a Frozen doll, and even a little mini-tyrant character will torture you until you can't take it anymore and at the end of your exhausted day you buy her the toy doll. What could your pitifully wasted life be for, when all you wanted was a little independent peace and a deck chair near the shade of your quince tree; and when your little daughter becomes a bride, you, like an old, toddling old man, ask yourself: ,,What did all those incomprehensible, melancholy decades of yours go for?!

It would often be easier, like blind Theiresias, to decipher, by scribbling on Braille paper, what the truer sincerity of the inner Soul hides in secret, encrypted. Why is it necessary nowadays to ***** more and more, even for the impossible; the nimbus of our understanding, logical intellect can surely be trapped in labyrinthine traps? It would be much better to approach the uncertain fate simply as a "tabula rasa" than as a good friend, because a trust-based relationship - no matter how much we might want it - rarely results from petty, petty conflicts.

What would have happened if Adam and Eve had decided to ignore the flattering, honey-glazed speeches of the serpent and had finally remained in the paradise conditions of the Garden of Eden, which proclaimed harmony?! - It may now seem increasingly that many unnecessary factors and solid data are continuously obstructing the communication channel that leads to understanding and actual compromise; instead of discovered loopholes and obligatory gibberish, it would have been better if they had embarked on the path of convincing compromise, and not hopelessly running after apparent possibilities offered on trays.

The world now looks like a lonely, unstable, volatile volcano ready to erupt. above; our quickly cleaned shame stains remain just like that even after the lyeing or hippoing nicknamed permanent. It seems that the dog no longer even thinks about the early fading Future; the mere will and humility have become a rusting mill wheel, with which the mass-people of changing Ages dig the pits of their selfish graves. Who could want – only in their own way – to listen with understanding ears to the testimony of inner, bursting wounds?! In deliberately deaf Ages, a nuclearly calculated mushroom cloud produces defenseless victims!

The eternal-child soul may one day grow up to the ennobled tragedies of fate; it will be blinded by the lack of Nothing that nests in the subconscious, because only one chance is possible for the pairs of proportions. In the meantime, as the periods of life history alternated more and more shallowly, the desire for certain falls became insoluble again. The foaming waves of oceans also lost their sails, because man cannot find the Odyssey of homesickness only in death. One day man will understand why it is necessary for him to still post faithfully in temporary circumstances on the bands of the lowest boundlessness, so that his time does not run out early, the promised fruits of the small Sisyphean weights without space and time can only grow and be created around the house of others.

Why can't the human word find a suitable analogy for the inner, more hidden soul?! Because there is only one possible answer to completeness, just like the fillable Universe?! Today's digitally underdeveloped age deliberately lacks the reliable monotony of paced, rhythmic slowness; even in the beating, feeling heart, there is a total lack of emptiness if it is unable to decipher and interpret the belittling feedback of a given microenvironment. The feelings of the duplicated Self are often consciously covered up by the personality that shows the surface.

- They put their self-identity to sleep, or wake it up from its dreams. Because Being, a little beyond death, finally rests on the branch of Nothingness!

The budding romantic morning of summer, like a colorful veil, is now torn into tiger stripes; the musty-smelling darkness of Sikátor is unraveling from itself in strands. Man would like to throw off not only his nightmares, like a worn, worn, worn-out coat, but also the germs of human-smelling, two-faced evil. Like a thick, impassable door, which can lead to who knows where - all the sinful sins of infinity close on us unnoticed. that we have become mortal, and our immortal soul cannot be completely independent, free, locked in the cage of our body. Even now, above every dream-career, a rubbed, greedy, petty condor vulture circles, feasting on the remains of mooching prey. It would be good if we could strip our inner souls of finite sadness, like the secret anatomy of sorrow, because inside – often barely noticeable – a firm barking that wants to whine how loudly roars.

Man always dies a little in his Sisyphean selfishness, he can never fully understand the helpless absurdities of filling up. Hour by hour, not only conscious small-mindedness grows, but also the universally expanded fear of failure and success, according to which: no one can be good enough either for himself or for the great, hypocritical World. In crypt faces, increasingly vile, evil grotesque grins look at witnesses, hypocritical prophets, like grimaces.

The selfishness of the world first necessarily consumes, but also surprisingly often buries its defenseless victims, who would still have clung to something. Wrapped up in petty sermons of words, like pupae, people mostly betray and betray themselves first. Fewer and fewer people can take an understanding look at the precise evidence of corruption!

Sleepless Times, which can conspire at any time even in the tamed land of dreams – if they so choose. Signs of the past should be nursed, who carry the pain of stigma wounds unnoticed. Like the children who were made to sit in silent silence or were scolded, who could not get gummy bears, Playstations, or anything else – now, as if the dawning morning light involuntarily humiliates a person deeper and deeper... Like the tiny ants, a person can also increasingly – if you are not careful – break into broken mosaic pieces, which nothing, not even the laws of the Universe, can put back together;

The secret worldly materials of humanity and spirit can no longer be realized by the balancing desire for certain instinctual satisfaction. Unsuspecting, they cross so many belittling, forbidden thresholds, because they are sufficiently careless, unwary, and involuntarily violate the inner silence of the secret circles of the soul. On the fate-woven veil of Being, a stray, clinging cobweb thread often tips over; the secret mood melancholy of joy and sorrow, just like the secret pendulum of moods, changes every second, like the devil's spasm. Because the eternal Nothing can still be lost by the crumbling Lack, because it lacks the secret umbilical cord that once organically chained its defenseless, lonely victims to Life!

The fragments of memory, like the potsherds, can break at any time; first only the found, yet hesitant movement falls apart, then the hug, or perhaps the handshake. We reserve the pitiful entrance to our cold, cheap, petty secrets – at least for now – for the competent love who would bring the One-Dear!

Ever since man has been conscious, he has been aware of it a little: here, it seems as if everything has suddenly ceased to exist, has been ruined, has been destroyed, as if there is no way to go anywhere or escape from here, because the whole big World is totally ruined. Nothing is and cannot be in rock-solid order anymore. It is as if not only the cells, organs, but also the driving springs of the internal body responsible for digestion, which also operate the heart acting as a pump, are deliberately becoming heavier.

And already – without a doubt – the tiny vibrations of the soul still move themselves faithfully, perhaps the dog no longer even pays attention to them. The inner longing torments the man's guts more and more; to go or to remain still for a few more ownerless, uninhabited decades, until we are no longer forty but fifty or sixty years old, and the piles of feces of our dreams and plans intended for realization dissolve into old men.

There is rarely a way out of the tingling grip of enormous lead weights, because sooner or later, one way or another, one must necessarily perish unworthy among the mists of gray, mortal dawn. The latent Lack grafted into Nothingness can still be held to an infinite account, because it would always interrupt, cut off the conscious realization to which man would generally still cling. Should we be left to rot, so that the eternal-childish fear and anxiety boil halfway?!

A touching tide of phrases of nauseating, nauseating speeches; that how much easier it would be if I-Time could be somehow expanded, although it is universally known that it is all in vain, because a single day only has 24 hours, and because there are many people for whom even 36 hours are becoming less and less!

In every age, this rigid falling flight stretched to the point of invisibility, into which a person involuntarily, inescapably clings out of necessity, because he can hardly do anything else. Belittling, selfish wasps lurk, dipping their stingers deep into your skin, in your built life, which you have scraped for yourself; you yourself rarely notice that you have become a decoy, who can continue to be led, deceived.

Out there, a crowd of brainwashed idiots, like fevered moles who have lost their minds, are constantly digging tunnels of dubious, pitiful careers, because they think that there is greater success, where one can lick some people's *****, but in vain, because a lying larval silence clings to their already ***** souls.

Because in livable life, the balance, which is already unstable and indifferent to the core, is increasingly tipping, namely, who is pulling which way and where?! Why do we have to stumble up and down endless eternities amidst constant tugs?! The un-understood wound is breaking into fragments of uncertain, doubtful tomorrows.

The selfish stigma-sins of fearful coincidences can hardly be heard by the ear of a simple person anymore; Now it has become more and more customary that retirement is just a privilege, and can only be given, and whoever, forty-something years later, still wants to recover from the anxieties of a stormy childhood with any dignity, would be better off going to Hell, so that they can at least warm up and not freeze to death for lack of fuel. This is how pre-planned desires, instinctively calculated plans, and objectives become old men with stomachaches, urinary stones, and toddlers. They doze off with their livable lives out of necessity!

On the Nineveh-smelling, alley-like street corner, habit is becoming increasingly furious. The plum body of indifferent public sentiment seems to be withering; the petty rage of moods is also stirring more and more imperceptibly, although for now only in melancholy silence, because the big city is already infected with work-horror, the face of a hack is always suspicious; since no one is named and no one polishes parquet floors and terracotta stones to their liking and the total is always doubtful, because it is constantly changing.

In disposable job grinders, stadium-sized emotions try to stir the stagnant water; the always imported melon peel has long since rotted, just like the pitted, crunchy but wormy cherry, because even the last thoughts cannot really win on their own. Deep in the soul – fearful –, man would in vain seek smaller wormholes for himself in a self-willed rebellion, and then with transparent hearts, like a wandering ghost, to wander carefully throughout his life, because in this consumer society no one can be truly himself anymore.

And since perhaps no one finds it, because they could not really look for the hiding place of happiness, the unbearably deliberate narrow path of existence now leads to total Nothingness, the disenfranchised meaning of which is increasingly difficult for anyone to understand. Man rolls heavy boulders like Sisyphus in vain if he cannot settle anywhere and remains in one place. More and more emphasis is placed on superficial, exhibitionistic artificiality, while the small child crouching in the soul is gradually, intentionally forgotten.

They can leave their moldy faces hanging for decades on some arrogant, rusty copper screws, from which protruding nails sneer their ominousness; modern man is increasingly showing withdrawal symptoms that seem to be hidden!

It has now begun to be a passing malaise, to be punished for everything, except for one's own faults, when not only things, melancholy objects, but also calculating and suspicious glances behind the back of the defenseless, vulnerable person, who is - usually - left alone to a sufficient extent, look at each other like silent accomplices. They dig their wildcat claws into the skin, saying: "Let it hurt, just calmly!"

- That is why the majority can gradually come to like totally catastrophic circumstances at any time. A single happy self-forgetfulness, self-deception, self-deception is now just enough for a person to compromise at any time or to perform a ritualistic Turn of the Way; carrion flies, petty thugs peck at their pleasure, spitting on the germs of a more livable life that yearns for order. Is every path both anger and humility?! Halfway between the two, a mirage of speech that has neither ears nor tail.

Guided by the weight of memories, and then burned, it would still be good to cling to the echoes of encrypted heartbeats, which comfortingly alleviate the apocalyptic ominous omens of sadness. Every phantom pain is also a trench dug with us also; the taste of sleepless nights among the rusting gears of the brain, wondering if Someone would still pay attention; a futile squirrel circling in a chained labyrinth, from which there is no and can no longer be a way out anywhere.

– The embankment road is constantly closed; sometimes due to flooding, sometimes due to noise! Anyway, it leads to underworld filth and filth. All unnecessary alarms and cries were a false alarm, let the neglected anger and injured self-consciousness wear away quite calmly on the sunken, slightly eternally childish face.

Oh, how many more titanically baptized, melancholic Ages, in which creative loneliness still resonates?! Sensationalism, a blind window of color blindness of devotion. Because even now the known and definite human yes and no mutual gambling game is constantly straining against each other; more and more at the mercy of a higher power every day, no one wants to accept the inexorable contradictions that could even supplement the foundations that have become unstable like a house of cards?!

The human soul today is more like a closed, secret book, which should be opened and turned carefully; one must understand the multifaceted meaning of the hidden Morse and Apocryphal codes if one wants to read it. In any case, it is increasingly difficult to gain safe entry through the wide keyhole of brainwashed skulls. – Even those who are ready for action are increasingly finding indifferent readiness everywhere.

The quarrelsome preachers could one day be replaced by a peaceful, wise spiritual agitator. A horde of grunting rascals is now huddled on the ruins of the world, they do not know how to survive their uncertain future. Because it is easier to exist confined to an inner infinity than to play around in the name of free will. The wretched, tinsel-like business shop has been handed over to gnawing rats and mice.

Because a clever phrase wants to puff itself up again and again on the shoulders of some straw men. – Now they are even burning invisible seals and stamps not only into the skin, but also into the chasms of the soul. The bowing, slobbering penguins are limping into this melancholy age; because they may know them as Executioners or good friends, they make a nicely gesticulated obeisance.

They serve spoiled food specialties and seafood to the unsuspecting VIP - star guests, who have especially delicate stomachs anyway. And while quite a few have just switched to the pleasures of zero-calorie diets and paleo diets as a fashion, they also deliberately make themselves ***** so that they can fit into the new trendy and fashionable clothing collection in time!

The morning, light summer breeze, as if it were already breaking the rope of our executioner; dark worries and troubles are entering everyday life, now driving stealthy, talkative conditions here and there, until they can only fit on their roaring throats. As if the scarecrows were voluntarily sitting on each other's backs, impaled. As if everyone's eyes and mouths had been sewn shut with the weights of padlocks, just so that they wouldn't have to protest or rebel.

- A deliberately thickened powder plaster spreads over the models' faces, but who can see their real, hidden faces?! It would be better to turn two truthful mirrors to face each other, to see who is lying and who is still telling the appearance-truth. As if the yellowed copy were already rolling itself backwards out of habit; how we should have become when we were still full of world-saving dreams and childish plans, our ever-increasing debts to others, so we ***** ourselves.

As if we should deliberately celebrate our conscious inadequacy. We are quite stuck in this already viscerally self-depriving robber Age, from which there is no way out; because mortals may still suspect that waiting is in every respect only the privilege and virtue of the dead, they have put together so many hackneyed, futile farewell sentences. The celestial stars dreaming of happiness hidden in superstitious eyes are carrying out a celestial degradation.

Wherever the simple average person turns, the excrement and ***** smell that spreads in the old sink of the Universe greets him, and the walled-in, meager poverty-stricken pension awaits him deep in mailboxes, which is not enough for anything, at most only for starvation. The only time your shaving day will end is if the Gillette blade accidentally cuts you off and hits an orphaned artery!

I often find myself in the crossfire of my actions and words, like condemned prisoners awaiting their own execution, tolerated and resigned, who have nothing more to lose and perhaps can never have anything more to lose. My cheekbones are covered with tearful petals, which curl back halfway, because like rusting rabbi's handcuffs: my extravagant, yet murderously honest words ring out on me, which no one understands and which not even the dog is interested in.

It would be nice if there were some inner arctic melting deep in my vulnerable, much-experienced heart, which would melt everything and heal my selfish, stigmatized wounds. My uncertain Future hangs on thin ropes, as I cannot even guess the weight of the temporary questions and answers that surround me unnoticed and often blackmail me, just like the massive camp of the demanding.

They may think that just another sucker or a tamed wild beast has got in their way, if they see that I go into myself every single day to decipher the value of the present. Conscience is most similar to an oceanic howl, which keeps speaking to me from deep within, and whose wise words should be listened to and heeded. – They often cannot even see it, since it is hidden, like almost so many things: a secret earthquake, a volcanic eruption rumbles on my face hidden deep within, like a tense heart attack that comes with stress.

I will escape, you will see, like a strange, disciplined guest-courier, who was only invited as a guest, for a surprisingly short time and will no longer be beaten by either real estate or fist-law. – My dreams lie on top of each other, which are unachievable for the next twenty to thirty years due to the lack of financial and human resources.

Useless, depressing summers suddenly become nothing, and like a balloon they burst; it is better to deliberately avoid irritable people, even if one risks the open Gandhian freedom from conflict, since it is always the same ones who do the sensational mischief for the world. A party queen of mimicry and hysteria, racing on endless petty steps, who even replaces the so-called dead night around her at will.

The world of sincere human feelings has begun to decay. The "how much I love you!" "I only need you, because with you I can still be myself" - phrases that were so good to listen to back then in the moments of the beginning love intoxication, because the first happier meeting was swallowed up by some unknown, strange, strange crack, a gaping hole, as if someone had smuggled a gluttonous Discontinuity between the beating hearts.

Nowadays, not even the dog is very curious about our half-sentences that have been nervous for decades, hesitantly mumbled, because everything has become superficial, negotiated, breakable contracts, which are followed by a new one that can be manipulated and challenged.

- The two mirror faces are paralyzed into identical grimaces, because deep down they already know that they have lost because their unconditional love and selfless trust have been shattered. The boredom of romantic desires often bores me precisely because of this, because the other party is also increasingly suspicious.

Like some cursed, black widow A fierce malaise surrounds a person everywhere, if he stumbles upon superficial, meaningless promises and statements; he drowns in forced, hemorrhoid-causing laughter, which should have happened so that he could not later return to the prison walls of conscious Lack!

Things, people, and petty moments seem to be running away from me now, even though I do not question them or interrogate them; it is no longer enough to simply pay attention to them or to turn to them in a way that is hypocritical and manipulative, when the outside world is merely playing itself out again in a hypocritical manner. Inside my soul, the earth-shaking desire to escape my seemingly restless ethereal stress and tension once and for all and to free myself from the sins of my frail earthly affairs still rages incessantly.

Philosophical tendencies that weave cobwebs still start tremblingly, hesitantly, if the interpretation of real life is the set and only essential goal; the Soul is at the mercy of, and unprotected from, a single, utterable, honest, tingling tremor, which only a heart can give to a heart. I keep shouting at the little child inside me, who often wants to stomp, and who dares to speak the truth for me.

I just don't have to tolerate the fact that the stumbling, vile memory rattles its crunchy, withered branches above my head, wanting to break off. I am still forced to exist in an increasingly vulnerable, sensitive zone, where I cannot be accepted, only a passing stranger, Silent pathnomios rummaging through the garbage of the day, hoping to find Darius' treasures. People, like determined criminals, are trying to rush along small, invisible, stretched tracks, more and more determined, after their increasingly pathetic, meaningless, useless plans!

A persistent air of weakness may flare up, when the hesitant tunnels of the blood vessels may be torn open by a careless heart attack; the blood clots as big as rocks would hear the cry for help, which the restless heart probes in vain. As if it had become increasingly difficult, more burdensome to break down the silence of the liveable, visceral Reality, which is inevitably present and surrounds you. Generous sadness also forces a person in an increasingly persistent state to no longer be permanently happy and satisfied, since happiness is not a permanently constant state of mind, - but rather a forced euphoric agitation. The beating heart may crumble into its own purple, in its own muscles, if it is unable to listen to the words of the law of the Universe in this earthly existence.

Every person's lonely island story seems to have been born subconsciously, and could only exist in the floating ocean of inner thoughts, because it has nothing to do with the actual massive Reality. Because the weight of feelings, touches, and moods has become colorless, which would still have significance if they had once been created and acted upon in giving. The fierce mass tumult of blood molecules is simultaneously burned or destroyed by attraction and repulsion, the inevitable, indestructible pulsation.

Every single hesitantly successful act or deed now seems to release the certain impossible from itself!

Now there are still different Columbuses, because the motto is not always: "Keep it quiet for the West!" - not everything is on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, but it is still enough for a more livable life, about twenty or thirty light years away. Because the deepening labyrinth-pits that we can dig ourselves, rent, have become more and more common; on the waves of stock market prices, the killer predatory leech-fish, the sharks are increasingly winning, even if they have to play Russian roulette with themselves, in this way they gamble a little.

And it is increasingly the case that it is no longer the noon bell that precisely signals the end of a given job - but the summit meetings that last up to thirty-six hours, meaningless business conferences, where foreign creditors must be honeyed and glazed, to convince them with ***-licking, why they should invest their money in us. Instead of flesh-and-blood people, they ask for a mechanized Pinocchio for a meeting.

And if we take it that way, even in the dating situation, it is increasingly embarrassing for the majority of divas who are plasticized as teenagers when some average little man keeps complimenting them and comes up with the laws of the Universe. Instead of Grimm's fairy tales, today's modern children stare at reality show news on their Tablets, because how could they have learned who the evil, ugly witch is and who the good house fairy is?! Thus deporting contemporary literary cultures.

- It is increasingly noticeable that vandals and Suleimans have become more ambitious and greedy, just like the deceitful demagogues who usurp each other's thrones at the carnival of the modern nuclear age. Banking truths are fierce its hooves are pounding on the necks of increasingly oppressed creditors.

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!