Man, you had better take good care of yourself, because it has become a custom in the world to court the executioner in the language of a dog nicknamed good-natured or a monkey that barks. You will remain a permanent loser of a lack of a single day. Perhaps some other solution would be useful if you remained a victim of such a permanent longing. Because you have to endure the uncertain future without admitting it.

Perhaps even the embryo memorizes in the womb that if it is born, a permanent, mortal captivity of its body and spirit awaits it, for the sake of a dubious example. Behind our hands that ask for help, there is still a lack of any kind of effective support; space or time - I fear -, it will never settle down again, because it will viscerally consume the members of the earth, its defenseless victims, because the massive house of cards built from loans and credits is growing, which will soon collapse before its time, man crawls among buried fragments of pottery in this nameless space-time, and perhaps he will not even know what it is at the hour of his death?!

The word, the promise, the oath of handshakes have become an empty shell. The sound form that sounds like reason is also becoming increasingly disintegrated, torn, we should try to think with patience and empathy and this is not taught in the so-called public sector schools, only in the Montessori ones. - The bitter wrinkles of the soul cannot be washed out in a washing machine to make it squeaky clean, like the oft-repeated "tabula rasa" - the tattooed knife marks of stars shine on dried faces, but fewer and fewer people can understand the universal messages. Because now, it seems, the antennae of thinking, scientific brains have been permanently spared on purpose.

On the edge of centuries that are spinning in time, language - I'm afraid - no longer recognizes itself; we know well that even at the dawn of modern digital civilization there are continents that are beyond the reach of God, where public utilities, internet or Wi-Fi connections, television, DVD players, Bluetooth wireless headphones, and a series of unnecessary cyber-gadgets do not exist. As if they were intentionally cut off, or just blocked, from the broad horizons of technological revolution.

The fishing-hunting-gathering lifestyle, as a kind of settlement lifestyle model - I'm afraid -, is already starting to take root in Central Europe. As if some deliberately accelerated fermenting rot had already moved in everywhere using general methods. Barren jungles intoxicate their traveling explorers. Now, they are increasingly deliberately leaving every trivial, trivial decision or fateful debate unanswered; as if they knew in advance what would happen if anyone contradicted or spoke up.

As if so many creative, harmonious thoughts should be born from stones, because the World is now a single, closed Columbus egg, which is better not to disturb or break. It seems as if everyone has deliberately gotten lost in this big, stinking, *****-smelling Reality that has neither end nor length; we constantly tell stories of suffered, survived childhood dreams that constantly return due to a conscious lack of love, according to which; we did not become superheroes, film directors, actors with sticks, or clown artists flirting with dangers, so that we would have cast out Death.

As if in our real lives we have already weighed the tiny coupons of the redeemability of Being among ourselves on a scale, hoping to hit the lottery numbers. And while we are daydreaming, we fall back into the average black-and-white everyday life of sobering awakening, where everything is flat, unfriendly and the same!

when you think of how I've only given
//
HALF as MUCH
//
did you think about how that may have been
//
my LAST HALF?

Something is now starting to surface, while thought and spirit are forced to listen incessantly in the depths of the Soul. Something would necessarily have to open the iris-retinas of the colorblind eyes, where petty, selfish, manipulative secrets lie hidden, because the totality of non-existent materials has unexpectedly-suddenly changed form and shape. It would be good if we all learned to cling to our still forgivable, foolish-childish mistakes, which could once have made us human; our tingling fingertips, like semaphore-seismic compasses, would feel the redeemable promise of the truer Universe.

Reason - even now - would dictate the vile conditions out loud in vain; the psychological smoke of permanent misery certainly already covers the brainwashed heads daily. The spiral circle returning to itself always closes, since it can return to itself; the metamorphosis should be noticed in radiantly happy eyes, which have not yet been seized by the power of disenfranchised materialism.

Man's most loyal shadow companions dissolve disembodied into the Nirvana-Nothingness, because behind it still remains the uncertain milieu nicknamed the permanent; we would like to despise our well-traveled Robinson-feet in the noise of the knocking silences, when the world has already shrunk to Omega. The stigma-stations of waiting accustomed to patience are becoming less and less understandable!

One may say I'm a failure
Others may see me as a creature
Many saw me as an addict
Might as well be an alcoholic

For whatever they say
Everything they see
I saw the real me
I know i wanted to be free

This world, which is guilty of itself, is a total, vast, devil-spasm-ridden world, as if it were squeezing out the disgraced, petty lives of ordinary people; it is littering heaps of filth on every side of the road, while its indifferent, superficial, wild-**** snobbery is gagging at its pleasure, while its brainwashed corruption is becoming wider and wider.

The form of birth, collapse, decay is now deliberately being blown away; one can still hear the interurban voice of the astronaut launched into space for quite some time: the doubled silence is now answering each other incessantly. Some people - one way or another - are constantly observing, eavesdropping, and digitally enslaving the simplified average, for whom the rules would still apply, and therefore can be extended, since the more influential and wealthy fabricate their own self-laws.

Does love, believed to be immortal, also eavesdrop on its own selfish heartbeats for another person, who - perhaps - cannot even really know how and how the other feels?! They demand cheap handshakes offering a bargain, as if this secretly entitles them to anything. - Sooner or later - they don't even notice - they shrink into silent, tiny lumps that can be easily trampled on, or even destroyed definitively.

Halfway towards the deliberately twisted Infinity, incessantly rattling devil's carts are still making deals out of vain calculation. - Even if they wanted to, they could have known for a long time: the iron teeth of Time have withered its members into wasteful souls, stranded in dust. They are the disillusioned prodigals of this present existence with lowered feathers, who deliberately do not want to live as they should, since they have become paralyzed in nervous spasms from what the media splashes in their faces in seconds. Because it is hardly possible for the average person to dignify himself from the arms of conscious, calculating scavengers!

Perhaps one day we will rise from the deepening pits of penniless bad manners, of deliberately provoked wild-**** Tahoeism, into which we were pushed primarily by more famous, word-wielding people as a kind of primitive, bargain-making, compromising corduroy. We will jump up like the hopping, modest grasshoppers from the watery, swamp-smelling puddles of assertion. One day we will safely jump to our feet from the webs of everyday propagandistic lies, in which we have been lying increasingly indifferently and sluggishly for many decades now;

We listened to the pleasant yet utterly false and ambiguous words of "the fence will be made of sausages" and how we had to constantly mock sports, because anyone with just a single, unnecessary lump of fat or a crackling fat-snag is not worthy of being friends with or accepted as a human being. Whoever said "what is in their heart is in their mouth" was first given a deliberately reduced salary increase, later his invisible bonus, cafeteria, and vacations that only existed on paper, and later they just beat the poor unfortunate man in the face with a broken jaw or two.

Maybe we'll get up one day, if we don't just lie there quietly, if we've had enough of the fast-acting brainwashed rascals who have reduced us to - we're often at the point where, with the push of a single nuclear red button, even professional magicians can make half the world disappear, just because the interests of the great powers demand it.

We'll rather repaint the hypocritical posters of cynical, skeptical poster forests into some kind of still-life-scented idyll, where, with an idyllic mood, everyone down to the last human being can be happy and satisfied at any time; later, we can proudly, perhaps with a shrug of the shoulders, make the secrets public, so that the newly objectified facts, actions, and consequences can be researched by the wellheads of future ages who want to think!

As if aiming, huddling ever closer to the wall; he draws his superstitious eyelashes into a slit, thus peering at the deceived, continuously manipulated world. Forced to constantly measure the shortest distance between sincerity and lies, he measures, like some eccentric arbiter, the weight of the stake, which is a nest of betrayals and lies. Backwards in the stream of eternal moments, thinking himself over once more, he decides to look away after all. Inside, in the secret depths of his soul, he still keeps his seeing eye open; he still faithfully preserves the ability to see truly, which is not polluted by materialism or superficial exhibitionism.

He knows and suspects: only in the depths of the soul can the romantic dance of the one flame take place, which he has perhaps dreamed of his entire life, - he would immediately regain it if he could have that second of memory that was still liberated and free from everything, because inside there is an irresistible power over instincts and emotions, even the silent, mute human words, which do not need to be spoken at all.

- Like a desolate cauldron, the creative silence surrounds him, which - nowadays - is increasingly difficult to gain in a dignified manner. Like interstellar frontiers, humility and will would lie under a giant dome for days; melancholy, meaningless, petty worries and troubles swim in a large carnival crowd, like so many fish embryos in a crowd. He will slowly and subtly consume his spirit, every drop at a time, if he is not careful, because truer human stars are patiently waiting in the garden of golden hearts for them to be admitted.