I would still search for the dormant Time, to which the playfulness of a playground child is rarely connected, the reasons for the hazelnut-brown chestnut dolls with which man could play; as if processions of unarmed, fate-chased memories were walking one after another on the shelves of my mind. Existence will soon become a despondent requiem, which thought has given content to, just like the methods of hasty, mistaken escapes, the universal Lack wrapped in the shell of petty, false truths.

The quick nervousness of a neurotic can also absorb the worries and anxieties of a stripped existence at any time; that it would often be better to look evilly and laugh at the terrifying Death with its Janus-face, which greets us with the countdown of our birth. We should fight in slow motion - not only with reason and arguments - but with the facts of causal connections, so that the curses of petty problems do not consume a person.

Now we would rather intentionally lie to ourselves about our mercy, our childish naivety, But it would often be good if not only the evening harmony-silences could arrive on tiptoe - but also the instinct-desires of the Universe offering salvation, that through every cursed somersault-tumbler it is sometimes necessary to forget the lesson and the test, before only a person is singled out; he carries within himself, like two brothers, the Lack and the conscious infinity.

Before the abyss of the outcasts, one should still talk to one or two eternal friends, Not to unnecessarily pull the risk of infarction factors with broken rope nerves. From some invisible crevice, suspicious distrust snakes its way up, daily testing the trust and humanity that we thought were eternal.

In the window-sized, mini World, it seems as if the city with the smell of Nineveh is only visible in spots. As if everyone is already organically recognizable; the Apocryphal sigh has carved secret signs in the cracks of faces, as if the beginning and end have all flowed into one big puddle. Reality has long ago devoured the entire showcase of illusions and pretense, while in the epicenter of petty, nauseating exhibitionisms, it always becomes second fiddle, who wants to stay organically out of things.

Because now it seems as if the fearful eternity is cutting deeper and deeper spiral circles for itself, man can also be a freed prisoner only in the crumbs of everyday garbage heaps, and no rain-speaking Angel embraces the shipwrecked souls with his protective wings; the Executioner-Time pulverizes them with words, because the time of reckoning has come. Even escape squeezes its compromised victims into a vacuum of decades, since - in many cases - it is hardly possible to hide or flee anywhere.

This is a cruel lesson, a silent game, visions of lead ore torture the still crouched, selfish moments of the living unnoticed; sluggish memories, tamed childhood magics keep vigil waiting for further prey. Character, human humanity, falls into small pieces, just like a tower built of shaky building blocks. It would often be better to urinate into the wind, just in case the cold shower doesn't come so unexpectedly.

We deliberately suppress our whining voice left over from childhood; we don't have to face the fact that we didn't grab the starvation-wage life annuity in addition to pension insurance. Even so, there is less and less money in our accounts, and something trickles in here and there.

Nowadays, people sweat a lot because of guilt, manipulation, hypocritical guilt. It is certainly difficult, because in the true shell-consciousness of solitude, even their own selfish silences can trickle down. They would rather voluntarily close in on themselves, just don't let them be noticed by chance. They can never see the secret scale, they always judge only themselves, It is known: it is necessary to swim without a flutter from the ground of Reality towards something completely uncertain...

Because promises made to the extreme, well-sounding truths often snap suddenly like stretched string-nerves; even hearts that dictate true sincerity sooner or later compromise, because they long for true feelings of the Universe. The sly fox toll collectors of doom - perhaps - can arrive a little earlier in every age. - Despite the attractive villas with swimming pools on the beach, lives drowned in futile luxuries easily turn even the self-admirers into amok. Is it that the expectation pretended to be necessary is deliberately thrown out of life in every case?!

Many people do not want the stigma wound carved by Being, but they are forced to bear it out of necessity; the greedy hunters are still out there, sniffing for whistles, gathered in packs. The immeasurable amount of underworldly tow of cynicism covers almost everyone and has even haunted them several times during the day. They smile more and more willingly, more cynically, even when the eternal whys of truly meaningful answers and questions have long ceased.

A digital microchip is embedded in the poles of the skin, when all the previous good-sounding encouragements suddenly weigh on the heart as if they were forced, saying: "Something will happen!" No and Never will succeed!

At least on the surface, I pretend to have calmed down completely, nothing can upset me anymore. I accept the winter time system only out of necessity. Because - whether I like it or not - the World still ripens in autumn; my wandering, long-gone memories are simultaneously depleted and filled, finite Time waves within me, like the restless waves of a shipwrecked sea, which are increasingly difficult to console and calm.

The whole may now seem as if one has to look through the magnifying glass of a large worm-like lens into the great, infinite nothingness; it is surely Lack that simultaneously throbs and casts doubt, while a little selfishly waiting for its own downfall. From its split, ample poles emerge ants and maggots, just like in real, profiteering, scheming life, as if the sins that are committed were the same ones who committed them.

Because life should not resemble otherworldly whims and fancies, because the passings are not meant for self-forgetful joys to circulate in them. Perhaps one day the minute-by-minute tide will raise effective counterarguments. Yes, yes! But what will happen after that?! They will carry the only personal urn after the person, sighing, because it is still somewhat cheaper than the coffin. Heaps of petals of anxiety still want to leak out unnoticed through the openable doors; a bag of sadness, nothing more. That could only be left after an endless life!

Our footsteps rumble, like the wind that smells of Avar, our souls are still bathing even several times a day in the bleak, puffed-up filth of everyday life; we cannot leave the sheep clouds of childhood, because it still belongs to us. The awkward floating between Being and connections, the longings of diminishing instincts scratch marks viscerally not only under the poles of the skin, but also into the personality within.

The heralds who enter into alliance with the living have also arranged for vigils beyond dreams. In the lap of Being, it would be good to give up once and for all all attacks and defenses deemed futile against something that will totally entangle us anyway.

And although the nightmarish night is accompanied by incessant resurrections of light - man cannot always surrender himself, stripped bare. In the opening wound-darkness, instead of a forest of clenched hands, some kind of understood, squeezed empathy-tolerance would be good. In the atomic-stress feelings of eternal haste, in the vigilance of vision, the human soul can easily get lost; the beginning and end of internal landslides would unwaveringly crush the cracked shell of completeness, so that the separated Reality and idyllic illusion would be separated once and for all.

The secret current of the suppressed anxieties nicknamed permanent may still emerge here and there, a ring of shadow-memories of piercing shadows, a distorted face that remained was all that could remain. Every day, a person constantly feels when and where he has reached into a wasp's or an eagle's nest, which repeatedly wounds his stubborn conscience. A horde of angry people tempts him in a deserted, alley-smelling doorway, because sooner or later no one even notices and the endless silence quickly runs aground!

Now I can still digest what my prodigal soul has swallowed; My petty, selfish, weary conscience makes me count the minutes of my existence on watchful, nightmarish nights, if the round executioner-moon appears, because it would be so good if holy peace could build a house in the courtyard of my aching, shattered heart, even for a fraction of a moment, like the basic formula of "nothing will go wrong!" I feel that the festering, infected World is too much for me, if old age comes, like the invented burden of becoming superfluous, perhaps it would be good if someone could look at me.

Now, not only the seasons - but also the wild Siberias of restless, manipulative souls - are pressing themselves into the depths of the caves of souls, because the desire for flattery can quickly dry up at the fountain of secret souls, just like telling the truth. Human personality should be preserved with a shadowless conscious indifference, as a kind of rebellious testimony of worldly things.

Perhaps it is better to simply step over the pitiful, pitiful traps of intentional insults, while the decade passes by. One has long felt the unwelcome thud of rheumatic hooves pounding over one's pitiful head, between the viscerally ingrained bones; like scraggly, earthly, drunken puppies, the members of the newest donkey generation bicker over each other's backs, taunting each other to their heart's content, for they have rarely thought about the secret nature of inner feelings, because with Nirvana-Nothing and with the assured consciousness of solitude one can only be in sole alliance, everything and everyone else being now totally excluded.

I didn't imagine the great Life to be like this: it didn't break any hope, opportunity, or a good-sounding hint, because more and more people are saying these days that it is more useful to always adjust to the steps of others. Everyone is gradually slipping into the cacophony of great repetitions. Because even the sacred joys of getting to know each other are always missing something;

A complaint of fate that can be kissed off from the ashen palms of Angels, so that even the minor and major soul-blemishes can be easily repaired and comforted at least a little. In the airless vacuum spaces of entanglements, like an entrepreneurial craftsman who cannot receive an order, a project, or a well-sounding tender, since other bigger sharks keep snatching away the abundant profits, we dig our own, gaping graves with stubborn and determined expertise, when the eternal candles will also be on sale as the Day of the Dead approaches.

In the visceral ecstasy-cancellations of the inner self, we are always a little inclined to intentionally give up a more personal, more intimate, candlelit, romantic encounter, when we could even easily find each other, since we are truly terrified of lasting, overt humiliation. Clinging to the consciously forgettable memory-rings, we would still expect the smaller, more naïve, and ridiculous surprises of Being; just as in our adolescence, which can be increased to the point of being disturbed, when many of us realized that growing up is always a painful thing.

The bitter-lipped, dilatable cheerfulness that a fringe-haired Tarzan flashed mainly at model-shaped ladies; the sufficiently foolish magic of this current third century is spreading widely, among humanity, which is also selfish-possessive in its nature.

The rusty lock on each heart-petal swung unusually, as if everyone now carried several keys, digital padlocks, with them on purpose, because they can never give the vile current of unpredictable fate what it deserves. They prove unable to swallow and spit out compromising, redeemable dreams and desires. Life only passes by, almost endlessly, because perhaps we all lived and existed a little with cowardice. A discarded, neglected fragment of memory drifts by in vain, the spoken "I love you!" that led to the fatal breakup before the wedding.

No one can figure it out, perhaps they haven't wanted to for a long time, what could have gone wrong in a sacred relationship that was nicknamed lasting, spiced with everything, promising immortality?! There have always been and will always be answers, the simple excess weight of forced steps keeps pulling back its leaden limbs.

After all, it is impossible to stoop to the point of questioning the now happy wife, who gave birth to three children at once, with an open judge-prosecutor confession, as if she could have discharged her social obligation at the same time. There is no need to wait for mousetrap confessions; the stoic indifference builds a mandatory defensive wall out of compromises, with which everyone tries to keep everyone away from themselves first and foremost, so that no one can be treated with dignity even by chance. to question.

There is nothing to take back from the sluggish yield of compromises that seek to belittle, nor to repent with sincerity. Because everyone is now a coward and doubly unfaithful in one person. Even the one who once truly loved takes on the yoke of vulnerability!

Unfortunately, faces are no longer as helpful and empathetic as they once were; they have become distorted, crusted over with the grotesqueries of everyday petty exhibitionist nonsense of Existence. Once again, we are at the point where we are faced with the question of who has how much, and who can chop and mow down how much. Unexpected worms and beetles emerge in connection with each human soul, which is also a bit sociopathic, because we always have to bargain with our drunken, weeping self.

A deep feeling of nausea and disgust, suppressed in the fever of acquaintance, prevails, and because the relationship with every cozy Mediterranean-style family is a bit fragile, mainly because of the afternoon siesta, dolce vita. Unfortunately, the ancestral bird of unhappiness is always a blood-******* leech, a bat, while in the dreams of the romantic, unattainable, yellow, *****-smelling cuckoo's eggs; because often, inevitably, people stumble upon small, seemingly indestructible cockroaches and beasts in everyday life, whom it would be better to avoid and not keep in mind.

A surprising number of people have been forced to let go of the years of commies that were ordered to be quiet. We now carry within us our intentional carnivorous trap, from which we cannot escape; no one can be nobler or better than anyone else, only a prey animal that can be hunted down, crippled by work, and eviscerated; the blind guides of Existence-fate are no longer the donkey-steps, - but much more manipulative protections, pitiful commodity interests, which are placed in give-and-take positions, packed, and put here and there. It is necessary to beware step by step these days, so that we can still pay the quota fee with dignity and pomp for our eternal childish credulity.