Slow eternity, even hurried, melancholic minutes, fade away early, because the shackles of our body are carried on, because the Soul will surely, inevitably, break in caterpillar-tormenting pain if its roots are not cared for. All crypt-souls that a person has ever had to deal with are desolate and faceless.
Soul-saving press - at most only - in abandoned library rooms, if they exist, where not only free-thinkers, but rather deliberate withdrawn hermits return, to maintain the imagined appearance of an unattainable humanistic culture. - Because now it seems as if bars are squeezing a person from all sides; brainwashed incomprehension, conscious, trampled indifference, a whole petty set of snarling, meaningless sermons. It would be good to look for a way inward to the palpable wall of the Universe, because the time of the Executioner-Time, knocking and leaking through the crystal lattices of passing away, is calling our sick hearts with an infarction early.
There is no one left to scratch off the infected, decaying plaster of the earthy-smelling dirt with ten nails - I fear -. Like a blood-sucking tick in the skin, small leeches have covered everything outside, and while a simple person, like a frightened animal bleeding from several spiritual stigma wounds, is forced to do and act alone, totally at the mercy of many, because everyone who was still open to the connections of things and feelings back then is now deliberately puppeteered and guarding his greedy-delicate secrets like stingy misers.
Like sick kleptomaniacs who are now collecting everything maniacally; money, a changeable opinion, education, meaningless responsibility, because the spiral of their brains always goes where they hope for more benefit. They make a fuss with pretended jokes, just so that no one will have to remain a human being. They quickly sweep the truth brought by eternal fate underground.
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 2:18 AM UTC
Slow eternity, even hurried, melancholic minutes, fade away early, because the shackles of our body are carried on, because the Soul will surely, inevitably, break in caterpillar-tormenting pain if its roots are not cared for. All crypt-souls that a person has ever had to deal with are desolate and faceless.
Soul-saving press - at most only - in abandoned library rooms, if they exist, where not only free-thinkers, but rather deliberate withdrawn hermits return, to maintain the imagined appearance of an unattainable humanistic culture. - Because now it seems as if bars are squeezing a person from all sides; brainwashed incomprehension, conscious, trampled indifference, a whole petty set of snarling, meaningless sermons. It would be good to look for a way inward to the palpable wall of the Universe, because the time of the Executioner-Time, knocking and leaking through the crystal lattices of passing away, is calling our sick hearts with an infarction early.
There is no one left to scratch off the infected, decaying plaster of the earthy-smelling dirt with ten nails - I fear -. Like a blood-sucking tick in the skin, small leeches have covered everything outside, and while a simple person, like a frightened animal bleeding from several spiritual stigma wounds, is forced to do and act alone, totally at the mercy of many, because everyone who was still open to the connections of things and feelings back then is now deliberately puppeteered and guarding his greedy-delicate secrets like stingy misers.
Like sick kleptomaniacs who are now collecting everything maniacally; money, a changeable opinion, education, meaningless responsibility, because the spiral of their brains always goes where they hope for more benefit. They make a fuss with pretended jokes, just so that no one will have to remain a human being. They quickly sweep the truth brought by eternal fate underground.
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