Now I am drifting toward an invisible, swaying goal, even a sailor in storms; I go tirelessly lame, I stumble silent. The fog-filtered, stupid sunlight is now dense; You can hardly point to the direction, while outside, the world and the wise man shrink. It was as if sorrow, joy, it were a drink, and he couldn't let the dreadful doubts and haunting fears melt in the crouching of the soul.

In the maze of the brains, the memories that are considered lasting can soon be on the path of stubborn fading if memory goes bankrupt. Because now - it may seem like it - the average is stifling, and the inner circles, which used to be tempted, would have to step out and wanted to stay. While it would be good to believe that free-to-beer is stronger than the wild baundy hand that destroys and never builds, they are an unequivocal shortage of the otherwise uncertain future.

In the sneaky, knife -stalls, they even wander splashing, playful dolphins, even if the angels require money, petty materials, without really getting married, chessboarders are cheap, pathetic figures with ulcerative stomachs, Checking wooden heap, settled, drunk, far from sanity. One or two social workers -looking at them -but that is the maximum.

The huge gear of work is unnecessary to continue to oil and polish, as the thousands of bustling ants are vulnerable to the lords of the compulsive, until you can do it for cheap hunger while the Darius Muri Muri is upstairs. Social crossings and bridge beats between gaps seem to be intentionally no way.