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!
