When our face will become a face, and not just another Janus-torso, a fiasco constantly grumbling with itself, perhaps the conscious lack raging within us will unexpectedly go out, will be tamed. In the vision-life, many small devils, tempting us to sin and deceit, rumble among the gears of the head, and because in human life there are rarely guides comparable to Virgil, who could faithfully accompany us on difficult days, - one way or another - sooner or later everyone must cross the conscious threshold of finitude for themselves. In our bodies and souls, a hundred thousand sorrows are already outdated, aging, not only from the history of decades, but what is still left of this whole mess; the angry, pure judgment still groans inside:

Reality also compares itself more and more to a grotesque, surreal dream-like cage according to the rules of a given Gluttony theory. In the lost Time, the conscious use of language, the bone-house system dreamed of as solid by the longing for romance, will gradually wear out. - Pondering the movables of ant-minutes, the selfless helping hands are becoming rarer and rarer. Exotic supermodel-shaped angels stare piercingly at spiky star-eyelashes; their fate - you may know - cannot be free, nor irresponsible, because they are all just cheap, petty puppets of a single game.

It would still be good to walk around the scale-steps of Being with giant strides surrounded by blood, in case the frail man could find lasting treasures among the piles of feces; Why do we have to keep moving into the fiascos of alienated tomorrows when a more real home-shelter could be waiting somewhere?! The seagulls of lack have been screaming overhead for some time now and we still don't know whether the melancholy silence nicknamed timeless will finally **** in the suspicion of everyday life, or is it just lazy indifference?!