This melancholy Age has planted a golden seal on the stores of longing cells, molecules, and instincts. Every single day the fall itself stumbles, and useless counterarguments; pitiful soul-secrets begin to sob deep within you. who could have brought it to what?!
Because the mirror-heart that has become breakable is washed inside by true pearls, and thus the bitter, truthful-word is silent in them, like the mole-depths of wells. On narrow, cloud-faces, holy-evil is conceived, as man would like to keep up with his insidious chess moves to the core of history in vain. He throws a snag, then collapses so many useless, idyllic, dream-image-visions conceived in uselessness; because guilt seems to have universally died out not only from our souls - but also from our weathered bones. With the sour smell of sweat, we seem to be completely dependent on ourselves; the mass-man also empties itself in the inexcusable finiteness of a series of Nirvana-lacks.
Because man - since he can hardly do anything else - is forced to rush all his life towards the periphery of the uncertain Nothing, because later he will return to the invisible infinity anyway. Echo-words of duplicated cries echoed under caned rib cages... In the wave encounters of instinct-lives, Someone-Someone has always sinned. In their hidden misadventures, the feeling of stigma-loss settles under the human skin. Why does a fateful expectation have to be hidden?!
The spirit rarely builds castles in the air from expelled mother-killing words. In every case, a persistent, self-destructive self-blame gnaws at a person in every stubborn moment, so that one can only thrash about, like a worm stuck in a tree. Now the ancient principle of "hands wash hands, and an eye for an eye" remains in effect. Roosters scratch at their garbage heaps to their heart's content and scoop it all up for themselves.