It is as if random failures have now become a simple natural phenomenon; because no matter how much a stock market shark or business oligarch steals, cheats, or gambles for pleasure, the hellish petty frills of everyday life tie them up and don't let them go. The average person would try to stack their weathered, disintegrated, and embittered lives like Lego bricks into a mud castle, which would collapse sooner or later.
Celebrity countesses and posh party faces will not knead bread in the depths of mud pots, and at most will only pour bean soup from steel-colored pots for a selfie on one of the festive occasions. In the depths of the pitiful Nineveh voids nicknamed the permanent, handfuls of murmurs are heard by the lips that have become pottery, because the banks of the conscious Nothing are shaken by mournful sobs - even several times a day.
Sincere, giving kindnesses rarely make a pilgrimage to the less fortunate, since the privileged first carefully examine how much benefit can be theirs alone. In the tectonic folds of superficial melancholy faces, chains of prejudices and stereotypes gather, snarling; it is necessary to live in an incomprehensible inner world that has almost dried up into a moon, so that the inner personality can be sustained and effective.
The Soul is struggling with the absolute, definitively sharpened silence, the nature of its being, the failure of the given historical era, labeled as permanent, gathered in lumps, is increasingly difficult to endure and digest. In the museum of lives, a rusty decay still echoes reluctantly... Deceived emotions gradually find themselves homes, if only to the extent that they confuse truth with lies; it is difficult to bend over double majesties, because ambivalence surrounds its subjects.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 1:21 AM UTC
It is as if random failures have now become a simple natural phenomenon; because no matter how much a stock market shark or business oligarch steals, cheats, or gambles for pleasure, the hellish petty frills of everyday life tie them up and don't let them go. The average person would try to stack their weathered, disintegrated, and embittered lives like Lego bricks into a mud castle, which would collapse sooner or later.
Celebrity countesses and posh party faces will not knead bread in the depths of mud pots, and at most will only pour bean soup from steel-colored pots for a selfie on one of the festive occasions. In the depths of the pitiful Nineveh voids nicknamed the permanent, handfuls of murmurs are heard by the lips that have become pottery, because the banks of the conscious Nothing are shaken by mournful sobs - even several times a day.
Sincere, giving kindnesses rarely make a pilgrimage to the less fortunate, since the privileged first carefully examine how much benefit can be theirs alone. In the tectonic folds of superficial melancholy faces, chains of prejudices and stereotypes gather, snarling; it is necessary to live in an incomprehensible inner world that has almost dried up into a moon, so that the inner personality can be sustained and effective.
The Soul is struggling with the absolute, definitively sharpened silence, the nature of its being, the failure of the given historical era, labeled as permanent, gathered in lumps, is increasingly difficult to endure and digest. In the museum of lives, a rusty decay still echoes reluctantly... Deceived emotions gradually find themselves homes, if only to the extent that they confuse truth with lies; it is difficult to bend over double majesties, because ambivalence surrounds its subjects.
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