In our moments, it is not yet the iron-heavy dream that has hit the homestead like this on the approach of the holiday, but rather a kind of destroyed, permanent shipwreck, nicknamed permanent disillusionment among the ruins of a worn-out, much-destroyed present. In the leaden night after midnight, a raven-black jaguar or a panther purrs as it stalks its prey, as if Life, the eternal director, as the great, fatal mangrove press, sooner or later grinds every created soul to its liking.

In the dim light of street lights, a lost five-minute-famous Celeb-face appears; with self-help advertising strategies and new like-hunts, because recognition can no longer be guaranteed otherwise, only with manipulable, lead-seeking tools like this that are splashed everywhere. The faces that have been very familiar for twenty or thirty years, yet unknown, are covered by some mysterious, charming frosting smile, which is both a lie and a lie, and remains false forever. It may seem that the constantly thinking mind can rarely create for itself a cultured home-shelter, secure library-ports.

The one-World, now rotting to the core, is experiencing an unorganized lack of space for an uncertain future. The waist of winter digs viscerally into human tissue with its frozen tiger claws, and no matter how much it wants to, it won't let go. A sense of cold and mixed loneliness has now moved into the cocoon of insomnia. The well of life is an ever darker pile-chasm; getting out of its labyrinthine spiral lines is an increasingly self-evident impossible undertaking.

The slapping lesson just got easier; as if only those who openly lied to themselves and made more and more small-scale bargain alliances of dubious value in order to live at a high-quality, elite level or to prosper! "Nowadays, no matter how much anyone can ask for a small number of people here, if they don't have enough money, they will die!"