You have decided: you cannot forgive anyone, because it is hardly possible to change anything anymore. You can *****, blindly, hesitantly count on one or two of your old friends and acquaintances, hoping to help you on the path of your pathetic, shipwrecked life, which – it seems – you must walk alone for good. Often you yourself are more like that, held back by conscious fear, a petty spasm of no-man's-land terror, wondering what might still await you among the wolf traps of calculating, compromising everyday life, in the company of people who are no longer even remotely interested in your fate, life, or dreams.

Soul-guts crawl out of the depths of your soul at night; your organs increasingly obey your instincts and your common sense is responsible for them alone. It would be better to escape, perhaps to the sandy, palm-tree beach of another world, where joy, harmony, and carefreeness could welcome you instead of the robot-yoke worries of everyday life. – Now you often feel deep in your soul that you have bet everything on a single well-calculated ***** deck of cards, hoping that the blind luck of the cards would favor you.

All the worries and crosses of forty years of vileness that have deliberately persisted and accumulated in you evaporate, infecting its victims like some envious poison-elixir. You could not accept the slaps of life, the somersault rules that you believed were unbreakable, it would have been good to fit keys into a thousand anonymous, rusting locks, to make the redemptive liberation openable. From your confused nightmares – it would be good to trust – that you will find your way home safely through the One-Someone!

We crowd, crowd, and even interfere with each other in ever-narrowing, gradual spaces; an eternally swirling roller coaster-calvary, like a kind of peculiar homesick Odyssey, which can be realized less and less with dignity. Our joy is only rarely, if at all, and the momentary intention of liberation is lost from everything else. The Lack, which is saturated hourly and then emptied in an infinite amount, swells and swells more and more - if necessary, if not - and from age - perhaps - it can endure less and less.

Because the return journey - if necessary, if not - can increasingly often come in one's way involuntarily, and there is no way to solve it, like a secret worldly riddle: where should one go?! - In many cases, one would rather remain a rabbit than a poacher. Many times, a cunning hand still nudges him on the back of the head, always coming up with the latest reason to outwit this present life with dignity.

Everyone is just waiting for applause, appreciation, fame; meetings with friends, acquaintances, birthdays, major disgraced, profit-oriented big holidays, celebratory parties are gradually being postponed. The holy helpless one of joys remains like this a little until the end of time, since birth is also a kind of intermediate countdown to the final passing away. Even if a person tries to break away in the end, in vain; the wild, clinging blood circulation jungle of the eternally greedy big cities grinds him down. Every heartbeat, every trembling sigh of the underworld has been marked with invisible wounds that will last a lifetime!

Now I am again where the shore is splitting in two; it would be better to finally get over – while I can – all the childish, petty donkey marches that this current digital colonization cannot even half understand, since it is not even blessed with a sense of balance, at most only with a series of manipulations, petty, delusional offers and promises. My drawn-up, increasingly torturous everyday lives, like boomerangs returning to themselves, run around, spinning the pillars of my already diminishing time.

Like a tightrope walker or artist on a half-cut, stretched rope, I am slowly becoming disappointed to the core; and especially in those who held the knife that cut my non-existent, pretended career, my intentions to assert myself. Now all I wish for myself is this: let me see through everything! Let me know and feel in whom weak evil nests, and who can even speak the honest truth in confidence!

For now it is even more of a scapegoat-error that in my shame-stained worldly soul life and withering decay coexist. It would have been better perhaps to have plunged from the intoxicating, immortal peaks of the intoxicating intoxications of the Universe into incarnation immediately, before it was too late; the enchanting redemption passed in order, but so did the certain deciphering, which could still have opened the keys to my heart battered with humility.

Now we must be more and more careful, since tomorrows stripped of the power of petty powerful ones loom over our heads, globalizing all our helplessness. In the corners of brain coils, some nuclear tensions have exploded for the umpteenth time.