It would be even better if the given promise-word would not just settle as a hearsay deliberately in deaf ears, would cover the brainwashed brains and the cranial cavity like a beneficial ivy; in beating hearts, even so, echoing formations could still take shape, the raw dough-leaven of trust and sincerity. Everyday life has long since become associated with something sticky, nauseating, yet celebratory, but false grandeur.
In eternal fate-sabbath formulas, attraction and repulsion seem to strain themselves simultaneously; between opportunity and conscious failure, perhaps it is better for a person to choose the latter, since the conscious curse of his mortality awaits him anyway. Things just happen, but you never know why or how the answers will be.
As if every earthly step, a gathering of superficial-lying faces were heading somewhere, silver-plated stars tattooed their eternal fate into the pitch-black night like their selfish, own Apocryphal signs, while the weak man remained below with his earthly sinful burdens. The eternal weaving of Being and Time through the instinctive walls of cells is finally fulfilled.
The stuffy noisy competition of people is now shaken by the automatic, roaring rhythmic voice of machines; man could hardly be further from man now. It would be good to shed once and for all the hours of boredom, when the immortal soul, indifferently languishing, only comes to grow old within us, and, arm in arm with death and fate, but still defying, everything that could once have existed as a goal, as a far-sounding, holy will, should rumble everywhere. Because something definitive, something incomprehensible, only comes together after half of a human life, and the failure of our well-thought-out plans is thrown upon us...
