As in confused water, the sludge sits down in the heart and soul of man now well a memory, past, and present; What the other is interested in the exibitionist embryo surface, when it does, scraps its own selfish-mushy profit-making every day. Wave-broken, crushed torso images clings to the fragments of those who have not yet been forgotten and may not really be able to recreate or re-create a broken situation, a gesture of gestures, the dance of manipulative pupils that can be seen on waxy faces.

He sits with a curved soul, tame, and obese the hesitant indifference, if there is none, no longer, which would actually be rebellious. Soft, snow-white babies rumble roller drums and pikes to see if someone else hears. Why, how can a man be only a spinning sacrifice for this current nonsense, vulnerable age?!

Distorted sermon speeches proclaim sufficiently rotting ideas, which, if no one cares, lightly pimple and wash the brain's thoughtful creative tissue. The thought - feared - can hardly scream. Because perhaps a long time in man has been accumulated in every reason to be disgusted and nailed to the stupid, humble wickedness.

For sure, what is certain, it would be good to understand what is certain; Man is running deeper, even in the spiral of refugees, if you think you want to finally understand yourself for a lifetime. Every lap will run around, maybe you can come back to you once!