Something lurks, a strong amber vortex sips and snorts, ******* out our life force; the remainder of our time doomed to mortality. Our shipwrecked days are dwindling at insane supersonic speed. As if it were no longer worth looking for new uninhabited Odysseus shores, where an oasis of peace and tranquility reigns unceasingly. The modern mass-man seems to be deliberately rushing towards his own uncertain Destiny, and does not intend to stop for a moment to ponder.

On the often merciless swing of life, everyone clings to the future in this way, it almost doesn't matter, since mortality was already decided at the moment of birth, so if we consider it unique, unrepeatable and finished. Fate is now certainly insurmountable and it is not really worth making peace with it, - thirst grows greedily and willfully in those who still choose the bare, visceral life. Whether life is a dream or a secret borderline of half-awakeness, Time unfortunately does not heal in the end, at most it can only alleviate the stigma wounds we have suffered.

- It would be nice to have a secret door cut into the wallpaper, where we can safely hide, deliberately selfishly tearing ourselves apart, and no one can ask meaningless questions about why we stayed inside, deep down we are all a little eternal children against absolute, strict adults. Sooner or later, the trace of grief is drawn on faces; let us still experience a pause of rest, even if - often the monotony and the curse of solid indifference flatten us.