As if we were just robbing each other, we would be robbing each other by trying to assert ourselves by trampling on anyone, in a world from which the appearance of tolerance and empathy has completely disappeared. Our inner, sinful destruction carries the fierce, Sisyphean weight of a huge self-destruction. The giant projector of the soul preserves more than a million memory slides, until Alzheimer's or dementia catches up with it. The ancient secrets of the Universe are already kneaded and coded into our instincts, and yet we often do not dare to safely open our vulnerable hearts.

It is also increasingly difficult to decipher the love of two unknown beats with its bitterly perverse Apocryphal symbols; because sooner or later everyone, increasingly sympathetic, just stumbles upon themselves. Our everyday annoyance is thus devoured by the tolerated patience, whose voice - at least - we do not listen to for the time being.

On the corridor of our dreams, we continuously distance ourselves from the fabric of real reality, of which we are still a part; in an instinctive vacuum, we shrink to endpoints, like the humming worms in the passages chewed by moles under the omniscient surfaces. We stare into the empty distance for a long time, since no one can yet see the certain interpretations. The silence of the outcast - fearful - although it does not teach us to live like a wise thinker, because it is becoming increasingly difficult to survive.

When somewhere, sometime, we think that the nature of our messy, confused things should be put in order, then all purposeful investments start to falter; greedy, snarling swarms of locusts would tear each other apart even further, because they no longer want to know the nature of the satisfied boundaries.

The World pours into us in rays from everywhere, which increasingly sets the consumer society as the only possible goal, while placing material well-being on the sole pedestal. But how much longer?! Every shell of loneliness is already fragmenting, since man cannot even trust himself, let alone others.

Even sweaty humanity already exists only in torn, fraying rags, or at most only if they can still pay for it. An invisible digital hand is pulling the current generation of cyber-donkeys on their pullable umbilical cords, who perhaps can no longer think in the long term, realistically, because a given phalanstery, mechanized intelligence, does it for them.

It is somewhat characteristic of all of us that we now deliberately disregard even the generally predictable laws of physics, just to get ahead with dignity and urgent immediacy; it could be a totally clogged traffic jam, where most drivers can drive to their heart's content, or a ten-hour professional, deadly conference, where most slave-riding boss-sharks only demand things for themselves. And the university is no longer about what it used to be, when fire-breathing prophets were used in common cultural matters to shake up an entire community.

It now seems more and more like everyone has made deals and contracts for their own benefit, and they have really made a deal!

The core of the storm scattered the honey drops of sunlight one by one yesterday; every broken, abandoned memory glittered in it. From the inner lightness, the slimy naked snail skin inside cannot be any more radiant or brighter, at most only stickier. The exhausted, tiring body still secretly tenses at both ends, because even the meaningless word is silent in speech. Why is it necessary now to deliberately and almost ostentatiously abandon the shores of common sense and then of thinking intellect, when nothing else is likely to prevail?!

Because even the dog cannot want to glide in fair chess games and sentence paths, it prefers to choose an easier, more bribeable bumpy path, the gaudy protrusions of Alamus intersections; even complex sentences of absurd conciseness are considered redundant. The unchainedness of hesitant fingers has also left them, because they have learned that only those who have been accomplished are allowed to be attached, while the simple average is also discarded.

Before the one for whom the answers to be decided were truly intended could even ask anything, the ancient answer unsettles; because the one who may know the most now has been a deliberate accomplice and silent for a long time. The narrowing, sluggish shred of emptiness grows deeper in the soul.

The turbulent river of Time is still beating, foaming, collapsing in on itself, kneading and walling its victim-members; at once challenging and provoking. The confused, confused outline of the uncertain future is becoming increasingly confused, barely visible. The driven night is still flying the bats of our own greedy wall, because the invisible Fate also writes its own rules of the game, its indecipherable symbols; the delicate mockery dictated by the horoscopes, which can be guided, is - I fear - no longer believed by the dog. Balanced on a double spiral track imposed by evil powers, fate also drifts a little with all its steering towards oblivion.

The deceptive mysticism finally vanishes from man, as the only net of mystery; mysterious, dissipating noses lurk beneath me, because one no longer knows who is friend and who is foe. One could be more relieved if one were lulled into self-loathing by the crystal-clear and always honest destruction of love. - The repressed night is the typical question-answer of the prophecy, the hoyan, and while the hieroglyphic flight of the bats destroys situations of existence, every day on the earthly orbit of the evil powers, everything must be started anew.

It is also worth being wary of life's wagging tail, because it is not possible to keep on wagging back every five seconds; the safety rope of the air gymnast's raging frenzy has run out, deliberately cut under the legs.

Somewhere in Europe, the bells have been struck aside again; the sluggish, deliberately forgettable Alzheimer's memory is already knocking on centenary stones. Shrinkage, schizophrenic self-consciousness, still points out tottering reason, pondering with its hesitant finger; a swarming herd of rats always spawns on new battery banks, because something attracts them. Even among epic seers and falsely testifying prophets, there are more and more blind fools, if they believe that a happier, more satisfied future can unexpectedly infiltrate us through creaky gaps.

Petty, selfish, destructive intentions flow hand in hand, just like illusions and lofty ideals; the cracked jar of past times can no longer bring deserved relief. Behind guarded gestures, forbidden grimaces, there can hardly be any stray human intention that could recreate the apparent wholeness, because even in the overbreathed suffocation, the musty, cellar-smelling air can get stuck at any time. Alamus snails march in order with their Milky Way mucus on the spearheads of rain-soaked grass blades and perhaps they are not even excited by a minor nuclear annihilation.

An old man-child hurries across the rails, stopping halfway, and perhaps looking back for those who still stared like idols of salt in the manipulable minutes of moments; the expanding Time will be dominated by space for a single minute.

Why do we feel that if they have been lined up for decades, as if Time were a false witness, even innocence would contaminate a person to the core?! From the black-and-white films of negatives - back then - it would have been much easier to evoke an eternal moment in the captivity of darkrooms, which is perhaps characteristic only of each individual.

The roads directed towards the finish line have become one-way labyrinths, just like the crossroads of the desire for faith. Many may not know it yet, but mere good-willed intentions are not always certain to be chosen with free will.

Often they do not dare to notice the hunters lurking in the depths of everyday life, who exist and breathe just like anyone else; one could say that they deliberately, with superficial pleasure, eviscerate life to the core. - because now fewer and fewer people are excited by the consciousness of half-humanity; that they sold themselves and made a deal.

The good thing about romantic love in the past was that it was as if the One-Beloved had carried the feelings in her womb, so that she could then give them birth every day, while the pain was replaced by selfless, radiant happiness. In every case, it ends the same way; whoever sets out on a long, unknown journey is not sure that he will find what he was really looking for. One wonders where he could have ruined the selfish game theories, as well as the manipulable psychological tools, if he looked into superstitious eyes!

As if all dislikes were now uniform; like an iron ball wishing to hang on chains, it swings unnoticed in the depths of the soul's mine, harder than granite, yet still softer than conscious Nothing. Almost everything is now made up of manipulation and a series of pretense. It would be nice to spontaneously get stuck in an idyllic, well-deserved dream as long as possible, and where the expandable concept of Time does not exist.

Mobile smartphones are now unexpectedly and intentionally ringing into the chaos of already total-comatose awakenings; as if our crouched objects were gradually swept away by obsolescence, contrary to the supersonic levels of technological development. - In addition to small and large victims, small and large executioners and privates also regularly wield the scalpel, or even the razor, at their pleasure.

Because the Cerberus-devouring dogs are not allowed to join the holy choir of the persecuted these days, that would be too much of a snare for them. Packs of prey are grouped into starving hordes, while outside, strayed flocks bleat into the lost flock; for a long time, no redeeming forgiveness has flowed from the grass, even if it is trampled down once and for all. Every relationship becomes ambiguous, even if it does not want to - but is deliberately disemboweled or humiliated. The only question is: who will believe in survival and at the same time guarantee it?!

If we are not careful in this current brainwashed, diluted existence, our peanut-sized brains will be ground into a nut-core mass by the many vile, slanderously otherworldly speeches, the unworthy preaching of exaggerated promises. All the undeserved blows, slaps-showers have already run around the walls of the skulls, because common sense has long ago locked the gates of the temples. The knowledge and certainty that you must live as a wanderer now increasingly batters you, then suspends you.

The infected pus just pours out of the leaking Existence-cracks, like the honey-glazed judgments of false prophets. Where is the courage?! - ask the suspicious, just like the compromised, when it would be good to hold on to the power of a helping friendly hand, or to the gaze of the Kind savior angel, because even so, there are and will be ugly days when people would rather waste away like silent stones in the oozing mass-mud than on the glue-smelling surface, from which - it may very well seem - there is no escape.

Those who can still understand a chain of connections can resist all drifting, - though not for eternity and beyond. The message of cheerful human-charmers at the benevolent words of *******-angels will also be a delusion, an illusion. The holy shackles of truth and honesty must be broken apart by a newly concluded vague contract, by petty manipulative bargaining, so that they cannot function; live and create. A wild din rages among scattered human herds; it breaks the shackles of stoic silences, with which one could still protest, because somewhere deep down one feels: one cannot sell oneself!

It is becoming more and more necessary to descend into myself at every age; on the edge of the expandable Time and perhaps beyond. The tangled coils of my brain often form a Gordian knot, a lasso is tied by the consciousness of what else I need to ruin in order to develop, to learn, or just to learn from my petty, childish mistakes. From the neighbor, I hear a swarm of bee-like shouting, a childish scolding.

Two twin boys are madly in love again, wondering who can try out the newest Playstation?! In my selfish cave system, the film reels of my memories are still rolling unnoticed, addressing me; from the corners of long, winding rivers, a familiar face or two may still look back. Nothing can be a sufficiently black-and-white, silent episode in a person's life. My sickly foot stumbles halfway between spinning mosaic tiles.

I would recognize the echoing sound of my footsteps anywhere, only my Beloved is missing on one of my inner paths. Out there, in an unlivable desire to survive, they are at each other's throats, like wolves and hyenas who betray themselves at any moment, just so that they alone can be right; in my hamster-like cheek pouch, I have chewed a few Haribo gummies or a Neapolitan stringy snack, so that I never forget that I was once a child and curiously simple-minded.

Wild beasts and beasts are now raging in humanoid bodies at the same time, and one turns one's head in question: Will there never be a peaceful feeling of well-being, harmony, or development here?! Media-celebrity monkeys who are unable to articulate dictate fashion trends, while nameless-minute-humans receive millions in salaries from someone somewhere! We are increasingly unable to organize our evicted, mischievous lifestyle in a frugal manner!