There is no will or hesitant emotion anymore; It would be good if it would have been possible to plant empathy-tolerance in the forests of the tiny lights, along with the usual hunger for love. The distance is as if it would be increasingly obvious between far-flung distances, not just between a man-man. The soul of the soul is also ruined uncomfortable; Memories that fit into Atlantis also sink in it if they are not careful.

Crocodile tears would look for a way out under the fountains of the forehead, if possible; Inside, the slightly small, pathetic arm of the retreating, measured sighs ask for his admission somewhere, which they only know that the dirt of everyday life should be washed and expelled. The senses are dampened by the cell element, the inner secret suspicion, which also prevents one from trusting the other at least once in a while.

Outside, his dance is still dance by the pathetic, nonsensical talmic cheer; The illusion of possible opportunities, which is unfortunately not at all reserved for the average. The eager, eager, pursuit of success is tilted with its selfish limbs. As a fibrous wooden beam, they lined up in life with the unworthy, ship-wrapped sins that no one can get rid of.

From the field of idyllic dreams, his still victims are retreated by the formula of realistic reality; They are searching or looking for gaps where they may still be able to swim with this confused whole, because one can hardly do anything else in the loops of time, like a *****, soaked metaphor!