Somewhere in Europe, the bells have been struck aside again; the sluggish, deliberately forgettable Alzheimer's memory is already knocking on centenary stones. Shrinkage, schizophrenic self-consciousness, still points out tottering reason, pondering with its hesitant finger; a swarming herd of rats always spawns on new battery banks, because something attracts them. Even among epic seers and falsely testifying prophets, there are more and more blind fools, if they believe that a happier, more satisfied future can unexpectedly infiltrate us through creaky gaps.

Petty, selfish, destructive intentions flow hand in hand, just like illusions and lofty ideals; the cracked jar of past times can no longer bring deserved relief. Behind guarded gestures, forbidden grimaces, there can hardly be any stray human intention that could recreate the apparent wholeness, because even in the overbreathed suffocation, the musty, cellar-smelling air can get stuck at any time. Alamus snails march in order with their Milky Way mucus on the spearheads of rain-soaked grass blades and perhaps they are not even excited by a minor nuclear annihilation.

An old man-child hurries across the rails, stopping halfway, and perhaps looking back for those who still stared like idols of salt in the manipulable minutes of moments; the expanding Time will be dominated by space for a single minute.