You are standing on the penultimate rung of the ladder, looking at where you can still find yourself in this filthy, cesspool, hardly human, useless, miserable existence; stale-smelling self-awareness supplements are digitized not only by websites, but also by meaningless reports of vain, superficial, arrogant monologues between people. Your morning musings are guarded by the *****, worn drawers of your desk.

Because you know: again the desperate, fruitless trying, the wingless, senseless scratching, that nothing and no one is what it always seemed to be anymore, and that the human onion skin-Soul does not voluntarily open the floodgates of its inner self. And again the Sisyphean silence of the terrible, soul-consuming weights; you can't be free here, only abroad. You languish in timeless captivity decade after decade, like a prisoner who never finds a place to roam, as the life-giving marrow and idyllic memories of romantic loves suddenly and quickly leak out of your damp bones.

If you think about will and actions, they shouldn't seem like compulsions engraved in yesterday; moments are petty, the grinding mill of Alamus is also nervously unrelenting. Everything that you can still see tangibly can be easily realized: it is a false illusion, which was used as a temporary bribe by a pompous and delicate stroman director.

It's a revolving dream-vision that you want to gag, when you're fired the moment you commit the crime, because you stayed true to yourself and for Christmas gift baskets, for a predictable party - not so much - you never degraded yourself to the point of searching for opportunities to assert yourself in a pseudo-consecrated manner.

Now ask yourself: how many bumblebees, fools, and fools would hold a chance as a helping hand for you, while they would be dragged to the stake unnoticed just because of their misdemeanor in the wrong place at the wrong time?!