Small, blood-splattered gusts of wind howl above the heads, pushing the onslaughts of the self-uncompromising winter before them; from the instinctive silence of bodies, a crack of silence quietly roars out, and that too is only half audible. Because somehow all silence is conscious, and now lives in permanent captivity, because due to the unbearableness of Being, it is becoming increasingly difficult to get ahead, which would be good for everyone. The petty man of today, like a stupid animal, is walking towards a puppet covered in illusion, from which he is quickly disillusioned, if only he is not awakened.
Once again, superficial, meaningless gaiety and revelry to the core, a party-drama-cavalcade until dawn, which has little meaning, just another stupid festive party, where you can waste the beautiful, the good, the noble, because most people prefer to deliberately measure themselves equal to zero, if there is no other way, and not a laurel wreath grows in every cursed, dazzling rose bush.
Outside, you can increasingly feel as if only the consciously planted Deficiencies are demanding their one-time debt, which - as it were - were already buried at the moment of birth. The indifference-emptiness nicknamed the permanent has been dug up here, just like most manure piles.
The dense Nirvana-nothing waits for its turns that disappear into timelessness, like Godot, while most of the little people breathe their last breath of its lead-free air. Every rejection of assertion is a fatal stroke to the heart. Now, lovely families of rats are playing around at will, mainly on the edges of bridges in a flood of neon light; the balanced tremors are difficult to decipher if there are no signposts on both sides of the Paths of Being, telling people where else they could go in their lives.