Halfway between my two hands, perhaps, that certain bottomless, lasting disgust will still splash out, like when the diligent, eager patience picks beetles from the emerald leaves of pleasingly grown potato beds, so that there will - hopefully - be no more problems with the crop. As if they were slippery, exposed slug bodies, as if they did not want to understand that they too have their place in the cyclical order of nature, as in the ranking of ecosystems.

These heatwave days greet us now in idle, sparkling whiteness; black cannibal laughter is heard surprisingly close, as if it were the howling of greedily starving wolves, who are not afraid of the cheap anger of hunters, nor the terror of lightning rods.

- A universal age of unbridled debauchery, like a test of floods, as if it wanted to inject itself into the smallest, almost micro-millimeter poles of man, from which there is no escape, but - true - hardly any salvation. Because between pores there is still inevitably hiding, and secretly and cautiously fleeing some inner misguided memory, refuge: the hanging of eyes without perspectives towards the uncertain future.

Man would almost constantly try the nerve endings of sluggish indifference, beneficial infarct-shadows nestle richly in his heart, while he receives a small pension for the time being. Nothing will come of Mak's captivity, because something is preventing him from doing so and will no longer allow him to exercise even the simplest of actions, which wouldn't hurt if it could continue for another twenty or so years!