Renewable mornings are like ***** killer, leaking through the soles of my soaked shoes, - in front of me I have to pay attention to split and split into two amoebaes the winter snow-covered, spruce-island: And yet I fell through a wide-eyed human sieve. In the mouths of many tiny crickets, sisere-arm, as the only outsider outside the camp, groping only the familiar unknown, I stop: Either I will be quite persecuted, or I will live to be reduced to a hunter myself! - This Century puts on those who daily produce with sweat beads the still existing Reality and the pleasure that has never been before

they knew - they leave it to those who get up at ten in the morning! People’s wallets are punctured and wounded by unfaithful self-abandonment: You can’t stay on the ground for some cheap garas after the possible tomorrow. Even with a terrible burden of responsibility, I am constantly grinding myself and dissecting the brainstorming of my brain: How to be captive to Tomorrow

earning bread if you have already shattered Hope got there? The only permanence against the tolerated World: Constant, self-marching, vibrating malaise! - Now a work that produces diligence and perseverance and a brain presence fills the mornings, and if the bed is rather a relaxing captivity short-circuited,

rather than constraint. Now you are still a biological cell, who would need a camp of life-giving molecules as soon as possible, but there may come an era in the found, dismembered Time, when Someone in loyalty clutches will look at you, and with your conscience - in the tunnel of secret telepathies

you become one with him! - Only the Thought can be honest and clear, because the mouth is already stuttering