Life, with its unpredictable flow, has just stopped at your feet; halfway between two inward bounding infinities - you would hardly admit it to yourself - you have been stuck for a long time, like someone suffering from pathological constipation. You stand in its crowded No Man's Land and you would rather shrink yourself, instead of finally fulfilling yourself.
As if lost, you would voluntarily hold yourself back and rather exile yourself from this big world, so that you would not have to look at the wolf's eye as a surplus with vile, hand-holding promises, which some compromising friends have forced on you as a shortage, or you would have to spend countless profit reports on a multitude of results reports, because with the final blow of Being, it totally delivers you, but it also keeps you in constant dependence. Perhaps it is better if praise and humble intentions keep trickling down from noble people, which is still going on; the patience of the actor, ingrained in human faces like moldy slag, is the bribed. The great powers are tinkering with a degraded historical era, patching it up.
Fickle-minded men pedal with those knocked out of the ring, saying: "That's how it should be!" Why didn't the loser-fool surrender?!" - As if the sweet lightness were one with the black compulsions, the crumbs of impending silences, the certain infinity floats above our heads with eel-like slowness, which we can barely see even now...
You have a yearning for faith, a liar, a sluggish life, because you made deals, and so sooner or later you became everyone's debtor; the wild tolerance you believed to be insoluble, to which you clung while you did your things, has also become tamed into an impassable ditch. A person is now constantly standing in the depths of cubic silences, like some creeper, hesitant, because there is nothing to cling to. Your petty evils have put on a mask, like a child's toy, they are still playing hide-and-seek with you, - but be careful, maybe - not for long!