I often sense the stick hanging over my head. Like that vile, razor-sharp sword of Damocles, my existence would be cut off fatally, my chestnut-clad neck would be cut off - just like that -, for its own pleasure the melancholy wind of October, the smell of wilted, musty wreaths around the ongoing life, resounding sorrows flutter like a dance of petals on the canvas of the inner personality, because something is always left behind under the manipulable superficiality of human souls.

What the distorted reflex of instinct has done with the Universe - perhaps - could only have been a false-lying illusion; because bitter-beaten it would have been so good to return home-to-harbors with dignity, to faithfully preserve the waterfall-sounding laughter of the Dear One. It would be good to gather from broken hearts the invisible pearly stars, which only heroic lovers can feel as broken parts of a given moment.

The endless metabolism of eternal things revolves above the driven head of man, as if in a spiral held captive; because now outside the houses are increasingly flocking together in packs of scoundrels, waiting for their easily obtained prey. Because even more trouble and trouble than prisons of existence, than vilely built execution trees, is that one should live. Nervous wrecks of people would trample each other and rush after ideas, which a governor's century would finish off like a pillar.

Guilty hearts would crowd together, since only destructible monuments of hope could remain; a crypt-like silence strains its strings from within, it would be good to huddle around our breathing human-like dreams and warm ourselves. Like old-fashioned upstarts, they practice themselves endlessly in duplicate roles, like stunted actor-saplings, seasoned celebrities and influencers. Antitoxin-fueled and a sufficient amount of exhibitionist dilettantism is the bittersweet reward for everything.