Why is it still true that stars with silver arrows are struggling above my head in spiderweb light? It's a very, very whitewashed sky. In the shadow of emerald-scaled cypress leaves, perhaps Someone-Someone may still be waiting for me. From the tired cave of my selfish sadness, a somewhat concerned grotesque-distorted face stares back at me; it still wants to decipher the complex meaning of life, and enjoy what is still possible.

As if tamed joy, happiness too, were an ugly, hunchbacked little clown, which we can possess only in the small degree of moments, the peacetime Ariadne's thread of memories would flicker above our heads incessantly, if we let it be carried away by action, zealous deed, determined will. It is often easier to believe the tale of conscious exclusion, because then it is true that no one bothers us. It would be better to patiently and wisely cherish the web of interconnected superstitious glances, and rather to constantly look: what secrets and messages might the other person's golden heart hold?!

- Radioactive sighs can now even reach the sky. - Because the future is now an increasingly uncertain, deliberately salted, barren desert, where only the influential can have the sole privilege, while the little people are crushed, robbed, and what is even more merciless: they are trampled like vile little grains of dust. Instead of a moving, limping, dwarfed nobody on the shoulders of others, the many limping, fake-tinny fools create illusions of crosstalk; Nowadays, there are fewer and fewer people who still understand that it is not the meager promise of destinations that tempts people towards miracles - but the visceral beauty of the bumpy, challenging road section itself!