The intended solitude and proud-stubborn silence seem to be his second self; since he is already trying to completely isolate himself from the outside world, since the world has already lied to itself a lot behind its petty bargains. He cannot, although he has tried not only through the pores of his skin, but also viscerally, to withdraw, because for some reason most people still believe in the growing suspicions.

Now, feigning innocence, those who once kicked the younger ones with spiked boot marks, just because they were unwilling to pay defense money in the schools, are defending themselves. All unnecessary, unworthy attempts and resistance were pitiful. Stubborn braininess these days is just an occasional deaf brainwashed awareness that even the average person can have something to add to their milk.

A historical short circuit can occur with an unexpected bird rustle again; a nuclear mushroom cloud here, an expandable Katyusha rocket there. And the stripped man from the distance of historical ages cannot resolve in his soul the concealed coordinates of the so-called zone of silence. Since everything today is so complex, delighting in opacity, it is quite natural that he can give petty reasons for further, inexplicable suspicion.

Hectically trembling, the charm of one wrong idea that wants to innovate collapses one after another; an inevitable confrontation passes from one soul to another in a petty-compromising manner, until an artificially manipulative betrayal occurs. The infinite depth also perhaps changes as it reflects the conflicts of interest of selfish Reality. Consuming the bruises caused by sins, the subconscious uncertainty grows in everyone!

Because some ******, pitiful excuse almost always pulls me back, and later immediately pushes me back; some tempted, inner restlessness locks itself in the most vulnerable inner bird nests of the soul, about which only I can know, since others, even spies and accomplices, can reveal what is only conveyed on the surface.

Secrets should be kept, even in this current world, the agents-reporters of the tabloid media go and go in and out of each other's private lives, like cheap paparazzi after a juicy gossip-hungry sensation. Tigers with claws are already rubbing against Being, sharpening their teeth, hoping that they will be able to have the useful, moxing-mongrel, at the expense of others, like when someone whispers unexpected buried words, still softly rocking before finally severing the umbilical cord of relationship after the immortal Everything.

The streams of the jellyfish-Times are still swinging on the horizontal plane of hourglass minutes, like adrenaline-addicted tightrope walkers. If loyalty and trust are now blossoming in your empty palm, it is no longer just a suspicious undertaking, but also an enterprise to be trampled, since it is of no use; the spear of goodness is rusty, chipped, broken into them one by one, petty suspicions break the tempted, lasting mistake into small syllables, perhaps it would be better to walk the tiny rungs of the ladder of sighs with loyal friends; because prolonged silence and procrastination also have their octopus claws.

The rusty, creaking gates in the spiral staircase of memory rarely open at the command of Alzheimer's; the groans of the mute are heard, the chronically crippled limp on crutches to collect the money of fat insurance companies, while the fat merchants now pawn everything and everyone, even their treasures. Somewhere, the locks of Being have begun to open unconsciously, like a sharp pimple that cannot be squeezed out - it can only be scratched!

Thunderous, wild, unbridled noises break the intimate laws of silence; on deaf porches greedy, barking dogs howl their petty verbal sermons about livable lifestyles. Many people are already so eager to immediately open up to - not only - the all-knowing Universe as a curiosity, the superficial duality penetrates to the marrow and viscera, from which it may seem that even the common man is unable to escape. Not only technological development has reached an exponentially dying point, reaching astronomical distances: healthcare, education, etc. The race for the cane has been deliberately abandoned after one seemingly unattainable project after another. They have been inoculated into an oversaturated hopelessness - perhaps - and a little bit of the ecstasy of envious jealousies.

The inventory of culture entrusted to us by thinking, modern minds is getting poorer; promises are receding on the far edges of a sinking horizon, and stray hopes, crumpled dream images can still be dug up from the past, like precious treasures believed to be priceless.

As if the voracious, gluttonous Time were now deliberately swallowing everything and everyone. It would be good to finally bring to the surface the aimless goals believed to have sunk; because now, locked between the horizons of brainwashed minds, independent free thought is hesitantly teetering, because even the stately apple tree of ignorance is shadowless. Millions of cat cries throb in the depths of wasteful minds.

Today, the mass-man is produced on nimble, busy assembly lines, just like a resold commodity that can be sacrificed and neglected; They must stumble hesitantly, like the souls of the dead, through an entire standing life!

Loneliness has struck many times, even if it was a chronic, unexpected heart attack, in the catacombs of subconscious existence something may have happened once before birth; as if in the mutual exhibitionist role-playing that is now spreading like wildfire in the World, most people have been reduced to mere petty, corruptible tools by the weight of everyday life.

He clings uselessly between the gaps of seconds, because the persistent guilt of lives clothed in bodies pursues him for an entire mortal eternity. The stubborn-childish resistance that was called persistent has long ceased to exist in rebellious hearts: the time of nothingness has now come, he has been able to viscerally learn the nature of his chains that bind him in a tangle during his manhood dressed as an old man, the trap of vanities surrounds his conscious perpetrators.

Because almost everyone has known for a long time what stupid flock-admiration and love are good for, it is still easier for brainwashed sheep-betov to submit the formulas for sunken budget deficits. Late wills cannot yet prove the unfair judgment of a deliberately forgetful, stupid posterity. Stepping on nothing, fate will sooner or later only be fulfilled.

Now cosmic nuclear barking dogs are barking at a frantic pace in the corridors of the Zhivág wind; unconscious drunkards, ready to stagger, wander among dead souls, even false prophets give up the idyllic illusion-weight of memories, among the troubles of historical incompatibilities, we should be plucked like tadpoles among profit-devouring predatory fish, powerful sharks. Who was the hired hand and who was the lying subject?! In their squinting eyes, a false sympathy, a malicious gloating, a narrowing suspicion all at once growls; nothing and no one can be rock-solidly certain anymore. To sense the telepathic, visceral loathing, like a malicious, nauseating ***** odor.

You wouldn't even admit it to yourself now, but you are forced to guard your own inner silence with open eyes, before being violated again and again every day; you couldn't believe that, like the beasts, you still await the Lack or the executioner's rope as your fate, you are chewing away the iron door of your prison cell of existence instead of yourself, because you have to jump into the subconscious nothingness, so that later you can safely catch yourself like a goldfish.

All that is now referred to as a solid fact-Reality may sooner or later become a terrifying fate, because even the enraged, snarling wild animal is increasingly stalking you; you pick up tiny crumbs as steps, while you only bend down with a sore back for a good bite, because your birth-beginning could never really begin, and yet it is forced to pass.

The thought keeps stumbling faintly, so that it can finally lie down in your melancholy mouth, because karma holds it captive. You are either forced or unwilling to drag your own weight every day, like many, many self-reliant millions of ants, who have a goal floating before their mental eyes; to climb the besieging sacred peaks of the social pyramid, laws, petty, meaningless rules of the game are binding you tooth and nail in the name of the broken balance, so that everyone is now hunting, slapping, or scraping for themselves.

On your bumpy, worn-out path set out from your heart, it would have been good if at least one person had accompanied you, but you yourself can easily see how much of a phrase this is now, a bumbling speech. You will remain locked in yourself for life, silently following your own beaten shadow, like some limping, confused Sisyphus, because you can hardly do anything else. Your wrinkles write your apocryphal will on the clown wall of your eternal childish face...

Because now man can hardly do anything else: mere Existence is a pile of straw and a foolish faith in survival, needles and thorns constantly wound his bare feet until they bleed. Afraid or just an addict, a blind eye, a solid fairy tale about the promised dream lives, which at most only flow through a few tabloid media sewers every day at their pleasure.

A sluggish indifference coordinated to the inexorable rhythm of life instincts follows as a paid extra, to walk on the edge of the threshold of Existence on black and white squares, - it is true - only a few dare to do this.

As if restless, rebellious minds could hardly walk in slow motion through the undulating peaks and valleys of the soul believed to be immortal, like a buzzing link, like an ant together with the excluded inner loneliness of man creates the system theory of its symbiosis; because only great powers are able to rid extreme living conditions of pests. Stripped vacuums of timelessness are created and destroyed in seconds.

Each and every outgrown situation is increasingly strangely devalued, because the intentionally tamed childhood, which should never have been intentionally forced out with its raw brutality, has become a paper coffin in itself. Some similar, petty finite beings may sooner or later still recognize the one-essence: only seconds separate the bearable struggles of existence from falling towards the certain depths. The uncertainty hasn't made the days any more predictable.