Nowadays, people sweat a lot because of guilt, manipulation, hypocritical guilt. It is certainly difficult, because in the true shell-consciousness of solitude, even their own selfish silences can trickle down. They would rather voluntarily close in on themselves, just don't let them be noticed by chance. They can never see the secret scale, they always judge only themselves, It is known: it is necessary to swim without a flutter from the ground of Reality towards something completely uncertain...

Because promises made to the extreme, well-sounding truths often snap suddenly like stretched string-nerves; even hearts that dictate true sincerity sooner or later compromise, because they long for true feelings of the Universe. The sly fox toll collectors of doom - perhaps - can arrive a little earlier in every age. - Despite the attractive villas with swimming pools on the beach, lives drowned in futile luxuries easily turn even the self-admirers into amok. Is it that the expectation pretended to be necessary is deliberately thrown out of life in every case?!

Many people do not want the stigma wound carved by Being, but they are forced to bear it out of necessity; the greedy hunters are still out there, sniffing for whistles, gathered in packs. The immeasurable amount of underworldly tow of cynicism covers almost everyone and has even haunted them several times during the day. They smile more and more willingly, more cynically, even when the eternal whys of truly meaningful answers and questions have long ceased.

A digital microchip is embedded in the poles of the skin, when all the previous good-sounding encouragements suddenly weigh on the heart as if they were forced, saying: "Something will happen!" No and Never will succeed!

At least on the surface, I pretend to have calmed down completely, nothing can upset me anymore. I accept the winter time system only out of necessity. Because - whether I like it or not - the World still ripens in autumn; my wandering, long-gone memories are simultaneously depleted and filled, finite Time waves within me, like the restless waves of a shipwrecked sea, which are increasingly difficult to console and calm.

The whole may now seem as if one has to look through the magnifying glass of a large worm-like lens into the great, infinite nothingness; it is surely Lack that simultaneously throbs and casts doubt, while a little selfishly waiting for its own downfall. From its split, ample poles emerge ants and maggots, just like in real, profiteering, scheming life, as if the sins that are committed were the same ones who committed them.

Because life should not resemble otherworldly whims and fancies, because the passings are not meant for self-forgetful joys to circulate in them. Perhaps one day the minute-by-minute tide will raise effective counterarguments. Yes, yes! But what will happen after that?! They will carry the only personal urn after the person, sighing, because it is still somewhat cheaper than the coffin. Heaps of petals of anxiety still want to leak out unnoticed through the openable doors; a bag of sadness, nothing more. That could only be left after an endless life!

Our footsteps rumble, like the wind that smells of Avar, our souls are still bathing even several times a day in the bleak, puffed-up filth of everyday life; we cannot leave the sheep clouds of childhood, because it still belongs to us. The awkward floating between Being and connections, the longings of diminishing instincts scratch marks viscerally not only under the poles of the skin, but also into the personality within.

The heralds who enter into alliance with the living have also arranged for vigils beyond dreams. In the lap of Being, it would be good to give up once and for all all attacks and defenses deemed futile against something that will totally entangle us anyway.

And although the nightmarish night is accompanied by incessant resurrections of light - man cannot always surrender himself, stripped bare. In the opening wound-darkness, instead of a forest of clenched hands, some kind of understood, squeezed empathy-tolerance would be good. In the atomic-stress feelings of eternal haste, in the vigilance of vision, the human soul can easily get lost; the beginning and end of internal landslides would unwaveringly crush the cracked shell of completeness, so that the separated Reality and idyllic illusion would be separated once and for all.

The secret current of the suppressed anxieties nicknamed permanent may still emerge here and there, a ring of shadow-memories of piercing shadows, a distorted face that remained was all that could remain. Every day, a person constantly feels when and where he has reached into a wasp's or an eagle's nest, which repeatedly wounds his stubborn conscience. A horde of angry people tempts him in a deserted, alley-smelling doorway, because sooner or later no one even notices and the endless silence quickly runs aground!

Now I can still digest what my prodigal soul has swallowed; My petty, selfish, weary conscience makes me count the minutes of my existence on watchful, nightmarish nights, if the round executioner-moon appears, because it would be so good if holy peace could build a house in the courtyard of my aching, shattered heart, even for a fraction of a moment, like the basic formula of "nothing will go wrong!" I feel that the festering, infected World is too much for me, if old age comes, like the invented burden of becoming superfluous, perhaps it would be good if someone could look at me.

Now, not only the seasons - but also the wild Siberias of restless, manipulative souls - are pressing themselves into the depths of the caves of souls, because the desire for flattery can quickly dry up at the fountain of secret souls, just like telling the truth. Human personality should be preserved with a shadowless conscious indifference, as a kind of rebellious testimony of worldly things.

Perhaps it is better to simply step over the pitiful, pitiful traps of intentional insults, while the decade passes by. One has long felt the unwelcome thud of rheumatic hooves pounding over one's pitiful head, between the viscerally ingrained bones; like scraggly, earthly, drunken puppies, the members of the newest donkey generation bicker over each other's backs, taunting each other to their heart's content, for they have rarely thought about the secret nature of inner feelings, because with Nirvana-Nothing and with the assured consciousness of solitude one can only be in sole alliance, everything and everyone else being now totally excluded.

I didn't imagine the great Life to be like this: it didn't break any hope, opportunity, or a good-sounding hint, because more and more people are saying these days that it is more useful to always adjust to the steps of others. Everyone is gradually slipping into the cacophony of great repetitions. Because even the sacred joys of getting to know each other are always missing something;

A complaint of fate that can be kissed off from the ashen palms of Angels, so that even the minor and major soul-blemishes can be easily repaired and comforted at least a little. In the airless vacuum spaces of entanglements, like an entrepreneurial craftsman who cannot receive an order, a project, or a well-sounding tender, since other bigger sharks keep snatching away the abundant profits, we dig our own, gaping graves with stubborn and determined expertise, when the eternal candles will also be on sale as the Day of the Dead approaches.

In the visceral ecstasy-cancellations of the inner self, we are always a little inclined to intentionally give up a more personal, more intimate, candlelit, romantic encounter, when we could even easily find each other, since we are truly terrified of lasting, overt humiliation. Clinging to the consciously forgettable memory-rings, we would still expect the smaller, more naïve, and ridiculous surprises of Being; just as in our adolescence, which can be increased to the point of being disturbed, when many of us realized that growing up is always a painful thing.

The bitter-lipped, dilatable cheerfulness that a fringe-haired Tarzan flashed mainly at model-shaped ladies; the sufficiently foolish magic of this current third century is spreading widely, among humanity, which is also selfish-possessive in its nature.

Unfortunately, faces are no longer as helpful and empathetic as they once were; they have become distorted, crusted over with the grotesqueries of everyday petty exhibitionist nonsense of Existence. Once again, we are at the point where we are faced with the question of who has how much, and who can chop and mow down how much. Unexpected worms and beetles emerge in connection with each human soul, which is also a bit sociopathic, because we always have to bargain with our drunken, weeping self.

A deep feeling of nausea and disgust, suppressed in the fever of acquaintance, prevails, and because the relationship with every cozy Mediterranean-style family is a bit fragile, mainly because of the afternoon siesta, dolce vita. Unfortunately, the ancestral bird of unhappiness is always a blood-******* leech, a bat, while in the dreams of the romantic, unattainable, yellow, *****-smelling cuckoo's eggs; because often, inevitably, people stumble upon small, seemingly indestructible cockroaches and beasts in everyday life, whom it would be better to avoid and not keep in mind.

A surprising number of people have been forced to let go of the years of commies that were ordered to be quiet. We now carry within us our intentional carnivorous trap, from which we cannot escape; no one can be nobler or better than anyone else, only a prey animal that can be hunted down, crippled by work, and eviscerated; the blind guides of Existence-fate are no longer the donkey-steps, - but much more manipulative protections, pitiful commodity interests, which are placed in give-and-take positions, packed, and put here and there. It is necessary to beware step by step these days, so that we can still pay the quota fee with dignity and pomp for our eternal childish credulity.

Just as eating is the test of pudding, we can't really do anything with our deliberately inward-flowing, draughty tears. Our residual, mushy, pathetic life is divided into three hundred and sixty-five tiny particles not only by Time or the calendar - but every day has that cheesy, almost shameful story to the core, according to which: we should adjust better to our alternate endings. Love ready to unfold would draw in vain increased comfort if there were no roots, seeds-germs left from which the whole emotion would sprout; why does the delicious roasted coffee, which we brew in the dim light of dawn, also have the smell of burnt *****?!

Because we must naturally inhabit the accumulations of lasting annoyances, so that later they can't say about us: "Well! This was also that kind of person!" As if the spiritual-physical connection had already - in many cases - finally come to an end, i.e. a person must always compromise with himself first and foremost, and bargain at the same time.

He often stumbles or gets lost in flooded jars if he is not paying enough attention, and because sooner or later the body also stretches itself towards the horizon of Nothing. The goals and planned ideas seem to testify to conscious helplessness; why should the disillusionment nicknamed permanent be skinned when there is still usable emotion there?! A state of voluntary death also outlines the order of the living, where they can go. From inside, the World already seems like a torn Band-Aid.

The spiraling snakes would now like to devour the entire World; nuclear fission may increase the actual value of mortalities in the eyes of "some" - of course as unnecessary collateral losses -, a white condensation trail inevitably passes over a person's head, left by some luxury private plane while reaching Earth orbit. The rule of the constantly suspicious sentries that remain open still returns now and then.

At the last moment, perhaps after five hundred years, the Cyclops-brained titans enriched with testosterone, who have deliberately forgotten the proper manners, the conditions of behavioral codes, the eloquent ins and outs of compliments, will also become extinct; anniversary rings are driven through broken or white diamond wedding rings, because fewer and fewer of them can only truly experience the feelings of the Universe, which alone reside unnoticed in the depths of beating hearts.

They grow respectable beer bellies not only It's pounding, but it's quite a lot, gentlemen Pál Pató, and while the great gentleman's party-dario, bolsoly-babysitter is going on, it's as if everyone is no longer able to bear the enriched, concentrated half-hearted appearance-happiness.

- The city of Nineveh, which has long surrendered to partying, is thus becoming an increasingly sinkable Atlantis, a tiny island of nowhere, which at any moment - if they're not careful - can be swept away by the moving Danube. It would be better to head straight in the opposite, more vulnerable directions, because now everyone is considered a bit of a good actor in fair-boy comedies; what is failure and success at the same time was actually a lesson and a make-up exam! One day - in any case - he will be forced to take off his mask and become a shameless clown!

In newer, modern-digital ages - it may seem more and more so - brainwashed thoughts are being driven into the wall, and they are being expelled like snot, because the hated counter-argument can also splash back at any time if one is not careful. In newer modern ages, the persistently nauseating flattery can rather give birth to massive ***** than to chemically pure *******, massively praising the law-makers. The given era regularly snaps the ant-men, like an unwanted cigarette ****, saying; they will be just fine - even among themselves -, they will be an ashtray.

Because the newest digital ages, like strings, bind and weave through the lives of simple, melancholy average people, like some everyday, negligible little package, not to fall apart, because the rhythmic intoxication of croaking frogs is clearly audible. Because - I fear - even sincere confidences may have less and less room among merely conscious, unsettled cell-molecules.

- A person would become a collapsed block if he constantly cried on the secret channels of tabloid media about who managed to successfully **** how much? How did he gain weight, who earned more? Maybe sometimes it is better to be consciously present and permanent loneliness trapped within four walls, not disturbed by a smartphone, smart TV, or laptop.

What is the better solution: social loneliness next to someone whose body and mind can still tolerate it, or to consciously chase away and exclude everything and everyone from yourself?! Many useless, yet essential, questions to be decided. In the flight of a kite, one should still catch a few more bold moves before the big leap into the phlegmatic infinity.

I should not be the only link, the eccentric link, between attractions and deliberate repulsions. I should not be a main character-accomplice, just a simple supporting character-extra, who can be dragged here and there but will not let go, because he tries to live according to his own laws and prosper as long as he can. As an obedient rebel, the trumpeting, hysterical archangels of the Future often sound the alarm above my head.

- I have already changed my course quite often out of necessity, because the World would have expected this of me, even though the "some" knew well that it would be much more difficult for me to balance alone on my lame, club-like legs on the edge of the donkey ladder of Existence. In the fearful cosmic, arranged bends of the road, there can no longer be anyone left who would extend a helping hand as a sign of help, saying; You lived as a human, so we will treat you as such.

Because often I no longer know what the invisible Fate is planning for me, who was a simple mortal in this mud bowl all my life. My eyes would still drink in - if they could - the truthful foam crowns of exiled, foamy seas, where man could finally find redeemed harmony and peace. Virtual silences hardly guard my steps; as if digital sentries were standing watch everywhere. Moving target-human blue It is still unbelievable that they know anything about the personality of individuals.

From sight to blindness, not only the base, vile suspicion against the long-preserved Universal instincts grows in me, but also the haunting vision-image of the One-Beloved has come in and out in the wandering ghost-hour; because my unfulfilled desires are also constantly drowned by the wedding of uncomprehended dreams. The vain camp of self-willed people would increasingly tighten my throat like executioner's ropes. But don't be mistaken, I will catch myself one day and hide from here into the Underworld!