Who is hard at heart, or never at peace in the name of compulsive games as the whispers of the left index finger, like the convict, the son of man has been branded, except that the fussy, ragged life is still a serious matter. Man's compromised hope was also lied to from the heavens, like the diamond-bright stars, in order to somehow fill the emptiness of the great lack at any cost.

Because somehow all of them have been forced to hide the deep abyss intentions of their own selfish and greedy plunder in secret and perhaps under me. some of them are even capable of squealing out of their own skin at any time and pretending to be something other than what they really are. They are the total opposites of a relatively impracticable, agreed-upon lifestyle and social arrangement.

Only the long-lasting loneliness could not ask for absolving grace from the agonizing, mind-blowing solitude; even among the memories of the past that open wounds, a lasting, agreed reconciliation can now seem more and more difficult. - With unreserved half-solutions - he is afraid - it is difficult to cross the dimensional gates of the inner soul, which do not just open to anyone.

With interchangeable Janus faces - in many cases - like sheep led to the slaughterhouse, snarling beasts stare at each other, worms and traitors at the same time, because they could hardly do anything else. In the shelters of sleepless nights, it would be nice to have a predictable, protective hug that is unique and inimitable. Everything seems to sink relatively uselessly into the squinting silence...