Why is it still true that stars with silver arrows are struggling above my head in spiderweb light? It's a very, very whitewashed sky. In the shadow of emerald-scaled cypress leaves, perhaps Someone-Someone may still be waiting for me. From the tired cave of my selfish sadness, a somewhat concerned grotesque-distorted face stares back at me; it still wants to decipher the complex meaning of life, and enjoy what is still possible.

As if tamed joy, happiness too, were an ugly, hunchbacked little clown, which we can possess only in the small degree of moments, the peacetime Ariadne's thread of memories would flicker above our heads incessantly, if we let it be carried away by action, zealous deed, determined will. It is often easier to believe the tale of conscious exclusion, because then it is true that no one bothers us. It would be better to patiently and wisely cherish the web of interconnected superstitious glances, and rather to constantly look: what secrets and messages might the other person's golden heart hold?!

- Radioactive sighs can now even reach the sky. - Because the future is now an increasingly uncertain, deliberately salted, barren desert, where only the influential can have the sole privilege, while the little people are crushed, robbed, and what is even more merciless: they are trampled like vile little grains of dust. Instead of a moving, limping, dwarfed nobody on the shoulders of others, the many limping, fake-tinny fools create illusions of crosstalk; Nowadays, there are fewer and fewer people who still understand that it is not the meager promise of destinations that tempts people towards miracles - but the visceral beauty of the bumpy, challenging road section itself!

In the middle of the night, brooding, searching for the wings of blind, uncertain instinct, I boarded the roller coaster of my memories; I circled around in a listless spiral, while halfway through creaking, missed, scattered sighs, I searched for eternal names, who were once by my side. The questions that remained silent, eternally to be decided, never came to an answer: who chooses whom on the tiny scale of glass-shard loves, and whether an intimate, fulfilled flirting moment can be a red or black dot?!

Somewhere secretly, perhaps, a warning bell is already beating wildly in my brain: "Wake up to reality, because - perhaps - the next day you may find yourself other determined, half-hearted acquaintances and friends who will not even accompany you to your grave!"

- It would be good to have some kind of encouraging, comforting encouragement before the long journeys, which I mainly prepare for when dubious magic words or nice deeds lead me astray, just like the well-sounding promises. Perhaps it would have been better to lock everything up in the hourglass of dreams, because time is valid - I can't believe it - counting down, rolling back.

Resounding blessings are still squeezed halfway into the conscious rhythm of monotony; because like an old, unexpected hurricane-storm, sooner or later I had to face the irreversible, bone-crunching old age, which - a pity also deny -, a kind of socially unspoken uselessness, when even a dog is not interested in humans. A distorted-looking World conceived in petty manipulations, with creaking defiance, with my head bowed, I would rather remain in my soul free will, if it is no longer possible!

You see, you split the dawn with your bewitching beauty at once, just like the blood-red dragon-dusk; the latent flood of measured psychological weakness is already beneficially strangling you. Now all actions and thoughts are as crystal clear and clear as the scalpel blade or the masterpiece of the samurai sword, which never fails, only allowing seven heartbeats before it finally strikes. You see, the crouching, disgraced shadow spots of nights, like thirsty or greedy lead ores, goblins, crouching in their disappointment, waiting for their turn, because - but it often happens - not only the love of the Universe, believed to be immortal, but also selfish self-deception, is decaying into barren buds.

The ex-Dear greeted us with a mischievous smile embroidered in the sunlight, but many times, while our hearts only beat and trembled in unison. He broke the plaster of the holy moments he thought were eternal halfway, because as a result of the breakup, the Fate line of destiny was finally broken. You see, you use yourself again and again, if you still allow compliments and romantic confessions to be created and pickled under your lame tongue, even as an unfortunate, stupid sucker, your humility does not exalt you - but often it rather tramples you a lot, if you deliberately do not want to be careful.

The attractive, shining wedding rings of the eternal Infinite, which you have heard about so much, can hold deserved happiness and creative harmony, even for those who have rarely had a second chance, have been returned to your palm. Now you are like the shoreless, homeless shipwrecked person; The *****, difficult everyday life creeps up on you with cautious steps, burdening you, and you yourself do not know when the weakening lamps of your tired eyes will see sincerity and truth in the other; only the Time with the smell of the Executioner keeps your orphaned thoughts with you. - You still look at how the angelic mother leads her toddling child, and the eternal child often speaks to you in self-examination: "Why did you give up the well-deserved redemption of so many comforting, comforting hugs and caresses?!" - Your answers - at least for now, there are none, only the slimy, sticky self-preservation.

Something lurks, a strong amber vortex sips and snorts, ******* out our life force; the remainder of our time doomed to mortality. Our shipwrecked days are dwindling at insane supersonic speed. As if it were no longer worth looking for new uninhabited Odysseus shores, where an oasis of peace and tranquility reigns unceasingly. The modern mass-man seems to be deliberately rushing towards his own uncertain Destiny, and does not intend to stop for a moment to ponder.

On the often merciless swing of life, everyone clings to the future in this way, it almost doesn't matter, since mortality was already decided at the moment of birth, so if we consider it unique, unrepeatable and finished. Fate is now certainly insurmountable and it is not really worth making peace with it, - thirst grows greedily and willfully in those who still choose the bare, visceral life. Whether life is a dream or a secret borderline of half-awakeness, Time unfortunately does not heal in the end, at most it can only alleviate the stigma wounds we have suffered.

- It would be nice to have a secret door cut into the wallpaper, where we can safely hide, deliberately selfishly tearing ourselves apart, and no one can ask meaningless questions about why we stayed inside, deep down we are all a little eternal children against absolute, strict adults. Sooner or later, the trace of grief is drawn on faces; let us still experience a pause of rest, even if - often the monotony and the curse of solid indifference flatten us.

It is dangerous to investigate with suspicion not only the small, seemingly insignificant bagatelle secrets of the Universe - but also to observe from the secret corner of the eyes the apparent tricks of the present Reality as if nothing had happened. Blind luck can escape from the hands of a person who has started to get holes at any time; the momentary joy and happiness are so imperceptible, barely perceptible, like some strange, inexplicable series of states.

As soon as a person meets an individual who seems to many people, it is better to observe everything in detail; from the culture of debate to the logically constructed coordinate systems of reason. "Some" who are still driven from within by the greedy, visceral career appetite will fall into fertile traps, to spend more and more - hopefully - at the expense of others. Why did we have to experience that even the false sincerity of love, affection, and feelings can be replaced at any time, can be put into Procrustean beds?!

Increasingly, inevitable decades of unstable sandcastles may await us, which have neither end nor length, because in a somewhat nightmare-like way, one can imagine that one is spitting in one's face every second, and the universal **** is now less and less able to be wiped away. One always overdoes it, but at the same time pushes the degrees of misunderstanding too far, because the outside world no longer reacts to it as it should; empathy, tolerance, solidarity - I say so - have all degenerated into meaningless, shallow words. Instead of providing help, general A grimace turned into a raised eyebrow.

The smell of coffee makes you feel nauseous and nauseous, like it's another lice day that you have to start somehow!

Man - even if he tries to be careful - wears the tattooed black stripes of days and nights; he will notice that he falls back without a trace into the paradise of silent stealth, to remain a little invisible or even unnameable in semi-incognito. The total chaos of indefinability is now increasingly trying to become a part of conscious everyday life, but not for long.

That man is now increasingly surrounded by crooked, interrogating mirrors, which keep the vile cult of superficial, meaningless exhibitionism still trendy and fashionable. If necessary, if not permanently, a talkative, sloppy noise swirls. Being - often - is also a fussy, irresistible One, because the cobweb of conscious oblivion would surround it.

The busy, upside-down decade is also more likely to sharpen sword blades and train atomic bombs; no one remembered, perhaps didn't even really think about, the red buttons that would trigger, or even the snapping trap of parentheses. Only suspicion, the ancient suspicion lingers for a long time, like someone who has secretly stopped in the doorway of a deserted, garbage heap; a crypt-smelling, cadaverous shadow still looks back and forth. Because the game of life seems to have been arranged on the chessboard of birth, and the straw puppets that can be pulled only hang here and there between the strings of Time, which they cannot yet understand.

Man remains more and more closed in on himself, because he knows exactly that out there in the World - fear - that with education and professional knowledge it is not certain that he would be able to do anything, although he may know: but it would be good to shake off all unnecessary ******* from himself completely, but his soul cannot open its rusty keys anytime.

As if a misunderstood, caressing-whining moment were reflexively trying to cover up the clear, tangible confusion of memories, even the forced immobility is increasingly obvious, but malleable. The entire outspoken holy will is merely a childish, weeping insubstantiality. Cognition is - from now on - only possible instinctively.

The unpredictable, unexpected turns of tragic Fate; an accident or tragic loss; the rebellious devotion of misunderstood actions. As if Nirvana-nothing were only the perfect lack of completeness; no one takes the masses of people on earth as a waste, like a pillar, around Atlas's neck like Sisyphus; thus the waves of sluggish indifference come and go unnoticed over one's head. Why is it necessary to cling to waiting or to possible fulfillment at all?!

Although - perhaps - it involves stigma-pains, soul-thorns, it is still better to openly say what the burning, restless heart wants to speak in its inner shell. The secret laws of existence could not be deciphered with the logic of an aerial gymnast; one could search here, or on Cape Verde, or in some icy Arctic Circle, because the inner Odyssey-restlessness is what boils and enlivens the marriage of one's excited blood molecules in its eternal insatiability. Often the ruthlessness believed to be solid is both useless and merciless if one does not pay enough attention to it.

The vomiting, petty tragedy of moods is an endlessly sorted, useless debris, which perhaps even the One-Beloved cannot possibly embrace and understand as complete perfection; it is increasingly difficult to elicit even the most profound compassion from total strangers! A stray, hygienic heart attack gets a complaint-euphoria!

It seeps into human flesh, like chitin armor, because what started out beautiful and noble is constantly being torn apart; first love and only then the Universe believed to be immortal. For the secret, sacred-vowed eternal smile of two eternal bodies, as in the labyrinth of ineffable pleasure, forgetting about homesickness, unconscious floating, lasting weightlessness-intoxication begins. We will be doves and pigeons in the wake of the moon-spring, who simultaneously hold olive branches and perhaps rings, as circular, indestructible symbols of infinity.

We let each other into the home of our souls confidentially, because unnecessary words were not so necessary; a kiss caressed juicy fruits between sun-fluffy lips. The campfires of our hesitant hands are still faithfully preserved - even after twenty or so years - by the rays of trust instilled in sincerity. - Between our fingers, but often for moments of rest, only the sand of our Time has been spun through, with which we wrote footprints on the beach. The summery, light wind occasionally catches in our capricious seasonal words spoken to each other.

Like when we hunted for shells in the heart of the oceans, and the horn armor jealously guarded a true pearl. As if after so many years, we are still only learning, groping for the concepts of the uncertain Fate, which was intended for us alone as a gift; as if we were forever moving away but also approaching each other in rhythmic beats. We are forced to latently put to sleep our feelings for each other, since the breakup - who knows why? - is still hanging in the air. From our busy lives, repeated memories emerge!

The honest-true would still burn in man - even if only half, or in captivity of crossroads. He should not give up or let go of his convictions, wherever this unfair, wicked-comic milieu may carry him. His eternally restless, petty, eternally peaceless soul would be so good for some kind of momentary redemption, from which he could still build and perhaps start a new life. Bars and cages stretch around him, while his constant kilometers of walking are tied to the shackles of his sickly legs, or even a vile physical disease.

- It is known: a hundred, and a hundred years quickly pass and where does Zhuangzi's imaginary dream of the fulfillment of the happiness he has found, like a kind of Nirvana-idea striving for perfection, remain? He bows his forehead in repentance before his distorted reflection in the mirror; like a sinking Saturn waiting for the mortal Jericho trumpets of doom to ring into his deliberately deaf ears; he is seized by a consuming guilt that in a given situation he did not dare, perhaps did not want to act.

Man often stands hesitantly on an empty horizon, because he feels that he should turn his life, which is rather doomed to mortality, back into non-existence; he sees daily how the World dismantles, destroys itself, crumbles to pieces. The Soul, like a secret, special mirror, can take on a new body in someone else, the metamorphoses of immortal Beings are greeted in a single movement, or in the comfort of embraces, as when the corpus turns into a silent, echoing cave, where the seeds of instinct are still created and conceived.

Because sooner or later man deliberately retreats towards his own future; he is unable to do anything with uncertainty; to formulate, to understand the hidden Morse codes of reason. - The snarling Cerberus jaws of beasts can rarely be closed forever by the historical century!

Because the unfair giggle, the nagging anger, is growing more and more - not only in the heart - but also in the darkening tunnels of the mind, then it clings to the inner instincts and senses of the person and surrounds him. Our words of apology also convey total disgust towards the otherwise completely superficial outside world. The gaps of fear in our panic are deliberately clogged with a hidden, yearning sigh for something nobler and better.

We don't know why, while others are rising on the petty, compromising ladders of such and such appreciation, the average person is sinking more and more, as if tons of lead weights were hanging on his feet.

The filth and the pile of objects that the light, summery wind is blowing towards you from somewhere are becoming increasingly intoxicating, and perhaps it is better if - in many cases - you say no instead of your unnecessary promises of yes; they splash the ancient driftwood of slander on you, because sometimes the scapegoat on duty comes and goes, and anyway someone has to do this too.

The suppressed joy of speechlessness would often be so good to release as pure spontaneity to the waves of the troubled and restless soul... Those who want to get anywhere at all may have to wait for a long time with throbbing throats, because people are pouring twenty thousand into sold-out concerts and festivals, and there is really nothing to see there except the faces of the party-goers. The stuffy buzz is becoming more and more crumbly, like low-fat pet food that has already gone bad.

Because in the flesh-purple ***** cavities - I fear - the bonfire of spark-spinning creativity no longer flies here and there. Bravely competing with troubles, quarreling and helpful Fate, where are you now?! Where have you hidden yourself, that it is impossible to even sense that someday, even with the existence of possibilities, everything will improve and even a weak person will voluntarily improve his selfish self!