A centrifugal dance of a cotton swab cloud around houses. The grass is now growing even lower - in vain do shaggy, impenetrable bushes, leg-damaging tares beat the rampant ground. Nor is a soul created as a raging farmer treading a furrow mark resolutely, into silent turns, uninhabited fields: It seems that nature is not planning a new garden here.

Staring at myself like a barely twenty-nine-year-old, tender, inexperienced relic, I sometimes just discuss important things out loud, without an audience! I have always searched for the whimsical caverns and rock beds of mole flights. Frozen lump of hair with Sisyphus-like teeth, like the Coward, I could only hide - escape at all costs

s way of eternal losers. A stubborn environment that does not accept human desires has always attracted me and, as a cautious, hesitant stepper, set aside new challenges and risks and bypass them as I flow the Times, I slip into silent futures!

Now the prophetic word of many: Roar! Their view: Assassination! I should be able to vote in confidence for others who are my relatives in the hitherto uncharted areas of the breathing conscience, - but it suddenly comes as a humiliated attack, unprepared:

Behind the cheap glossaries of indictments of the stars that have been forgotten and now forever remembered, we are hiding cautiously - we ourselves are afraid of painful, Vulnerable Truths!