I would still search for the dormant Time, to which the playfulness of a playground child is rarely connected, the reasons for the hazelnut-brown chestnut dolls with which man could play; as if processions of unarmed, fate-chased memories were walking one after another on the shelves of my mind. Existence will soon become a despondent requiem, which thought has given content to, just like the methods of hasty, mistaken escapes, the universal Lack wrapped in the shell of petty, false truths.

The quick nervousness of a neurotic can also absorb the worries and anxieties of a stripped existence at any time; that it would often be better to look evilly and laugh at the terrifying Death with its Janus-face, which greets us with the countdown of our birth. We should fight in slow motion - not only with reason and arguments - but with the facts of causal connections, so that the curses of petty problems do not consume a person.

Now we would rather intentionally lie to ourselves about our mercy, our childish naivety, But it would often be good if not only the evening harmony-silences could arrive on tiptoe - but also the instinct-desires of the Universe offering salvation, that through every cursed somersault-tumbler it is sometimes necessary to forget the lesson and the test, before only a person is singled out; he carries within himself, like two brothers, the Lack and the conscious infinity.

Before the abyss of the outcasts, one should still talk to one or two eternal friends, Not to unnecessarily pull the risk of infarction factors with broken rope nerves. From some invisible crevice, suspicious distrust snakes its way up, daily testing the trust and humanity that we thought were eternal.