He is increasingly hasty, judging. As if the constantity moving in one place would vibrate every petty, trifling limb, every visceral instinct. The consequences of deeds, actions, petty, hellish words roll off him; as if he himself could already guess that one day he will have to pass away for good.

Conscious despair, an intensified cry for help swirls in his incessantly creaking limbs. Lack and Nothingness incessantly forces its wedding-like decorations upon itself; it would strain his Sisyphus-like, restless seriousness more and more until he realizes why?!

The last supper night closes like an old, rusty lock, when every person takes a little account – including him – of what he has done with his petty sins, his stooped back, a whole spleen-weight, as if the heavy lead bullet were still dragging itself through a remnant-fragment of life. With closed eyes, one should have learned to feel in the other that one can count on him without ceasing.

He no longer demands his ****** integrity, even his more humane human rights, even if they were deliberately curtailed, since he has made the dances of the Universe and the heart quite clear.

But he has often rung the bells at dawn for some of his undisguised, eternally unconditional childish laughter. Now, thundering estuaries clash above his head; I could easily rob him. The world is now welcoming him outside, because perhaps the silent prison keys can no longer jingle in his hearing ear. No son should possess his rightful innocence with a usurping desire. Because every adult collapses and stumbles a little, while the child remains steadfast in the Spirit!