The pathetic exhibitionist worms searching the surface thought that they could find the semantic, more real meaning of how in the useless, two-dimensional power of the subconscious superego; perhaps they were no longer really interested in walling up their own petty vanity, like the Masons Kelemen and Kelemenne, who were volunteers. It would have been better if the self-evident fragments of silence had opened the rusty soul gates, where only the viscerally stripped Adam and Eve costumes mattered and not the material goods, such as: who is earning more than a million right now?!

Because the vain, stubborn person, having lost the deeply hidden, humiliated childhood that keeps so many secrets, constantly wants to look at himself only from the outside. – In the Universe before Existence, the primordial vibration, like some encrypted Morse code, still trembles all the time, invisible, but no one would notice; it would be good, like a butterfly, to pupate a little into each other's crystal-clear souls, where only honesty, unconditional nobility and goodness exist, – excluding the harmful intent of lies.

Consciousness, like some automatic machine, struggles feverishly with itself amidst the Sisyphean burdens of the burdened everyday life; our instincts have become an eternally thirsty, wounded Nirvana desert. Like a mad lapping wave, we rush after our unattainable desires, like drowning people who can be further manipulated and exploited.

You have decided: you cannot forgive anyone, because it is hardly possible to change anything anymore. You can *****, blindly, hesitantly count on one or two of your old friends and acquaintances, hoping to help you on the path of your pathetic, shipwrecked life, which – it seems – you must walk alone for good. Often you yourself are more like that, held back by conscious fear, a petty spasm of no-man's-land terror, wondering what might still await you among the wolf traps of calculating, compromising everyday life, in the company of people who are no longer even remotely interested in your fate, life, or dreams.

Soul-guts crawl out of the depths of your soul at night; your organs increasingly obey your instincts and your common sense is responsible for them alone. It would be better to escape, perhaps to the sandy, palm-tree beach of another world, where joy, harmony, and carefreeness could welcome you instead of the robot-yoke worries of everyday life. – Now you often feel deep in your soul that you have bet everything on a single well-calculated ***** deck of cards, hoping that the blind luck of the cards would favor you.

All the worries and crosses of forty years of vileness that have deliberately persisted and accumulated in you evaporate, infecting its victims like some envious poison-elixir. You could not accept the slaps of life, the somersault rules that you believed were unbreakable, it would have been good to fit keys into a thousand anonymous, rusting locks, to make the redemptive liberation openable. From your confused nightmares – it would be good to trust – that you will find your way home safely through the One-Someone!

We crowd, crowd, and even interfere with each other in ever-narrowing, gradual spaces; an eternally swirling roller coaster-calvary, like a kind of peculiar homesick Odyssey, which can be realized less and less with dignity. Our joy is only rarely, if at all, and the momentary intention of liberation is lost from everything else. The Lack, which is saturated hourly and then emptied in an infinite amount, swells and swells more and more - if necessary, if not - and from age - perhaps - it can endure less and less.

Because the return journey - if necessary, if not - can increasingly often come in one's way involuntarily, and there is no way to solve it, like a secret worldly riddle: where should one go?! - In many cases, one would rather remain a rabbit than a poacher. Many times, a cunning hand still nudges him on the back of the head, always coming up with the latest reason to outwit this present life with dignity.

Everyone is just waiting for applause, appreciation, fame; meetings with friends, acquaintances, birthdays, major disgraced, profit-oriented big holidays, celebratory parties are gradually being postponed. The holy helpless one of joys remains like this a little until the end of time, since birth is also a kind of intermediate countdown to the final passing away. Even if a person tries to break away in the end, in vain; the wild, clinging blood circulation jungle of the eternally greedy big cities grinds him down. Every heartbeat, every trembling sigh of the underworld has been marked with invisible wounds that will last a lifetime!

Now I am again where the shore is splitting in two; it would be better to finally get over – while I can – all the childish, petty donkey marches that this current digital colonization cannot even half understand, since it is not even blessed with a sense of balance, at most only with a series of manipulations, petty, delusional offers and promises. My drawn-up, increasingly torturous everyday lives, like boomerangs returning to themselves, run around, spinning the pillars of my already diminishing time.

Like a tightrope walker or artist on a half-cut, stretched rope, I am slowly becoming disappointed to the core; and especially in those who held the knife that cut my non-existent, pretended career, my intentions to assert myself. Now all I wish for myself is this: let me see through everything! Let me know and feel in whom weak evil nests, and who can even speak the honest truth in confidence!

For now it is even more of a scapegoat-error that in my shame-stained worldly soul life and withering decay coexist. It would have been better perhaps to have plunged from the intoxicating, immortal peaks of the intoxicating intoxications of the Universe into incarnation immediately, before it was too late; the enchanting redemption passed in order, but so did the certain deciphering, which could still have opened the keys to my heart battered with humility.

Now we must be more and more careful, since tomorrows stripped of the power of petty powerful ones loom over our heads, globalizing all our helplessness. In the corners of brain coils, some nuclear tensions have exploded for the umpteenth time.

A person's feet often stick out of every box they have picked up. Because people keep interfering in their lives - no matter how much they deny it -. Everyone has been burned many times by the frivolous, nagging, grotesque, hopeless Reality. It would be nice to hope even in the multitude of non-existent things, if that is all it takes for a person to start a new life, which - exceptionally - still has and can have value and meaning.

We have now become a little fed up with the fact that we have always inherited useless sermons and good-sounding hymns of praise from those who were in power at the time; The habit of being mean and sneaky really radically, oppressively settles on our already difficult, stuffy lives, like most of the slimy, slippery promises, with which the brainwashed, and therefore unsuspecting, average person can be lured in.

In the restless workshop of our lives, there is less and less room for the arrival of Universal loves, for a few eternal truer friends who brought salami bread and cinnamon milk gruel during the bitter cold; there are fewer and fewer four or five doors in this world where the prodigal, weak person can knock calmly, even at night or at dawn, because they are welcomed with welcoming love and even seated at the table without a whimper.

Everyone is a bit like the suffering superiority of those with a painful stomach ache, who already sense in advance and know what will happen unexpectedly, and they deliberately look down on those who try or those who get a foothold, just because they did not get it from the abundant interests and networks of patronage relationships. We can no longer be completely satisfied and generous with people who are confident in their superiority and who are perfectly satisfied with themselves, as they increasingly exhibit increasingly suspicious and calculating behavior, at least on the surface!

There, in the chapel rising on the small hill, where perhaps two people could barely fit, when you were brought in a carriage pulled by two apple-colored Pegasus horses; where a few diligent, busy women's hands gathered a feverish forest of flower bouquets, a rainbow flood of tired daisies strangled in wreaths - yes! There the blissful, redeeming yeses should have been said, which could only really mean something to us, since they reserved the Everything with a holy oath.

Then there should have been will, devotion, a beautifying dream - which at the same time eagerly nourishes, consumes, but nourishes - with which two beating hearts in love can finally belong to each other. You should have escaped a little while, when you did not let your snow-white voluminous veil fall to dust, with your moon-silver tiara, and a loyal protection, a protective harmony accompanying you throughout your life, which says in your superstitious doe eyes: "I have chosen you as my companion!"

- You should have arranged - only with a common will - the secret desires of immortal Fates, so that even the one-Beloved could be absolutely sure of his/her business, and doubt, suspicion, deceived temptation could not even fearlessly break the predestined bond of togetherness.

We would have clung to the plane with gazelle-like leaps, so that then on a half-uninhabited subtropical, paradise island, on a snow-white sand bed, in front of the sun's disc that wanted to set, we would have sworn in our hearts that we were beating: True, Good, Noble, so that the ragged life would take note two human, earthly stars, whatever happens, poverty or wealth, two immortal Universe-souls, now united until the end of time.

– The true word that resides in the deepest part of the heart should have been spoken as if it were the last one to be spoken here on earth: ,,If you really love, then neither Porsche, Ferrari, nor a fancy bag costing half a million, nor a castle on duck legs matters, because you feel that it is better to belong to someone than to just be floundering here and there like a luxury item for the seventh time in a lifetime.

Your children, later your grandchildren, will throw our loving instinct-egoisms at your eyes in vain; you can cry through a shower of abundant fountain pearls for an eternity, because you were a compromiser, a bargain-maker and maybe even a little coward, because you gave in to the predictable alluring power of prosperity and wealth. – Long, difficult At the end of our journeys, perhaps we will meet again, and then I will make your once golden, loving heart confess to you!

I keep turning back through the pages of my life's codex; memories, shadows of the past, even the persistent, tenacious deep layer, the poor pimples of annual rings still hint at a recurring ominous omen for my otherwise shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe life. The weight of crystal memories almost crushes me, even though I was no more sinful, foolish, or wasteful than the rest - a kind face, a good deal of good mood, unexpectedly comes to mind, because I often gain more truth from the reflections of talkative faces than from the cavernous depths of soiled, muddied souls.

In petrified depths, along with adverse trials, a few more eloquent sermons bubble up: "My dear friend! Why is this useless, worn-out life of yours not good for you?! It's true! Your bills and utilities are still in order, and even though you haven't bought yourself a new jacket, Lewis jeans, or elegant Italian leatherette shoes in ten or so years, you can still wait a long time for that sparkling toothpaste commercial smile.

Why do you behave like an orphaned light flickering in the darkness of the night, which deliberately prefers to hide its petty, selfish secrets and only glows from the inside?!" Your human attitude seems to last only for seconds, because at the same time you are attracted, but at the same time you are repelled by the sluggish, cynical indifference with massive awareness, the millennial principle of our time, since nothing changes, Existence can only seem more and more unbearable.

- A duel of spirits could not be easier, especially if the wise science of arguing is banned within radical frameworks by knowledgeable smart tonics, because they are truly terrified of the power of innovative creative thoughts and ideals. Your naive-childish, eternal Sisyphean worries and exploitability are now being played with by jerks and fools, while they splash pathetic, petty words at you halfway; be careful! It's not too late!

Don't Shed your viscerally restless life! Because you would like to reach there yourself in a worthy way, where joy and satisfaction await, and not the hustle and bustle of everyday robot work! And how good it would be there, arm in arm with your Beloved, to write the laws of the Universe in the sand!

A heart that beats for others deserves better than an empty, cold apartment. The broom of painted swallowtail eyelashes is a transparent exhibitionist curtain, where all essence is lost, because they let the echo drops of the soul be lost. Man no longer has great world-saving goals, only to finally reach a heart line identical with his split subconscious self. A beautiful supermodel-bomber is hardly noticeable, because the exaggerated body culture, the health mania, destroys and infects the levels of the Soul.

A skinned leopard fur coat - despite being an unaffordable luxury item - regularly exudes an unbearable stench; and while a manipulator is calculating with manipulative, deceitful methods, maybe he can have the biggest scam of the decade – average guys who are considered losers and suckers jump into the Danube as an internal consideration.

They are scattered around, as if their long-lost bohemian-dwelling eternal friends were mourning their second youth. A buzzing insect-circle dance – nowadays, this is all that the gigantic, principled treadmill of everyday life can be worth, because work never comes to the house voluntarily, that is the sole privilege of the big dogs and sharks; because everyone would rather look for the invisible, sure way out, while they can, hopes, stubborn illusions, foolish beliefs turn into frozen falls.

On the discarded, serviced street of Time, like occasional drunks, they stumble half-blindly one after another, the petty-murderous humiliations instilled over decades, the humility tolerated, the chasms towards which honesty and truth rush at once, since it may seem impossible to do anything with the Present!

Because now, not only the nights or the days are getting heavier and heavier, more pregnant – but the materialization that can be experienced viscerally in the world on the universal colonies of soullessness; the desire to trust, the naive-childish longing for hope – fearful – is no longer reminiscent of the whining child and his complicated adulthood. And yet, the great resistance, as a kind of disenfranchised, usurping rebellion, is only just beginning. Now, the so-called big-time usurers are just now having to sacrifice themselves on the altar of cheap, no-man's-land little paid lies.

If you get a hundred thousand as a gift, at least you'll give it back, even if it's a million and a half at the price of your pitiful head. You can still find a manageable expectation for anything with which the other can be easily influenced, and like a wax figure, you can still be pulled. A throwaway nothingness is left behind, scraped from the depths of a landfill or from the squalid filth of street corners, because – as we know – the afterlife is also increasingly vulnerable, and perhaps more vulnerable.

Every morning start is also a sure and lasting longing for a satisfied escape, that you would have to change even if you have been running away from yourself as a vulnerable shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe your entire life; you have often fallen into greater, more brutal pitfalls, like an angel whose wings were clipped. You could never take to heart the petty, petty life-and-death grip of cats and mice, because you have experienced the horrors of small, cruel amusements on your own skin every day!

Perhaps you have not yet thought about how much it weighs on your chest when you feel how and how the secret of your arbitrary weight changes before an imaginary tribunal. The wandering, opaque mass of yeses attracts you at the same time, but also weighs you down; the conscious saying no would be much more tempting. Because this current gutted, disemboweled Age, in which the individual as a creative individual has largely ceased to exist, is eating away your self-confidence to the core, with a wrinkled smile on a scattered corner of the mouth, because - as is well known - every defeat leads to misery, but never supports its victims.

The lack of the solid Nirvana-nothing would rather sweep away the rustling, melancholy limbs of Existence into nothingness; more than a million octopus claws of futility are grasping at you. Because the unknown, difficult-to-reconcile equations of emotions should be sorted out and solved, the power of calls and friendly gestures attracts even the naive-minded, because it comes from above downwards, the emptiness nicknamed permanent hangs all the way to the depths of the soul's cave.

The worst thing is that it is known: everything and everyone is overtaken from behind by the past, then by memory, until finally there may be no one and nothing left to which one once truly attached. And like a loose stone throw, the course of things falls a little every second like a whirling wedding of petals. - A sickening, nervous battle, a vow is heard: the smoldering-headed arrow of the Universe is questioning itself. As grace, mercy, redemption, it would cut through the harmony-silence in vain, like a double-edged sword that can only manipulate and manipulate with the selfish, greedy will from which it was taken.