It's like you're an increasingly shaky pillar of your own petty, pitiful ceiling; you still try to hold your uncertain future with your two palms. Do you still want to build something while, like Orpheus, you constantly look back and see if you did, thought or did everything well and carefully?! The cornerstones of the past - it is possible - can only give you yes-yes answers that you want to get wise.

You can only forget and hide under the carpet the millions of cellular instincts of permanent insecurity for shipwrecked people with the comforting, sustaining love of the One-Dear One; the conscious, deliberate fear that: you will be completely and suddenly left to yourself, just like your Alzheimer's memories or even the brain-shaped core enclosed in a walnut, may always remain with you. Now you are still looking into the aching, wolf-crying ice-blue eyes of winter, even the central heating can only barely pass through your hardened, cat-like bones. The drooping blood-red petals of your geraniums, saved from the frost and beginning to wither, are still hiding in quiet humility in the corner of your room.

- Now your accompanying instrument is the cello, which plays the sonata in G minor, but with some kind of intense, inner experience, like when the music also gets a cathartic euphoria, and you can't understand how, or how could all this have happened?! You would call upon the calmness of your immovable toes, so that it could finally accept your restless, restless soul, but you yourself know very well that it is not possible, since you still have important things to do here on this Earth, even though you only got about twenty or twenty-two years in a no-man's house. With your often petty, persistently obstinate and intrusive questions, you have already - perhaps - too much peppered under the noses of many people, who - it is true - could see you, but could not really get to know you like that! The massive, explosive temper held on the emergency brakes narrows in the cavernous depths of your soul, still whimpering.

Only the color and at most the shell, if you can see it. In the seed house, the black-brown seed is soaked and dried on the sand. He looks like an outsider wanderer, at the same time confiding in him, and at the same time even luring him in with an insidious desire.

Its insidious layering is revealed by a regrown thick layer; it always escapes from your grasping hands. It inevitably dictates and interprets the meaning of Being; it casts enticing shadows in front of you.

When the comical moment comes, you can see him slapping and deceiving his peers clinging to the branches of trees: perhaps people also beat each other up in this way, take advantage of each other. Judgment trudges towards everyone with black lead weights, just like the executioner. At the frozen, silent bottom of slimy dreams, everyone can already guess that the rightly dreamed proud present is just a lie that started as a rumination!

The innocent gaze is shocked by the fact that greedy worms, gnawing on the flesh of juicy, southern fruits, have stealthily invaded the farm like silt submerged in mud. And that the well-deservedly praised exotic looks merely pretended to play both flirtation and the intentionally orphaned true love.

The scorned and destroyed revenge shines in Dúlt's eyes, that he was led and deliberately betrayed the emotion of the immortal Allness.

The loyal, truth-telling mirror of the eyes, when did your gal become a traitor?! This current money-hungry, misusing the World's victims every day. And while the seed can feel comfortable inside its seed house - trampled by the harsh outside world every day, it makes use of its defenseless tugging puppets!

We should now tighten the gauntlet of marcona, thundering courage. All of us, like the blindfolded blind, are deliberately stuck in the gaping gloom.

Who would work in the pissy dawn of day, can't the unfortunate - God forbid - reach the meagre farthing for a pittance. Treading, among crawling roots, among underworldly terrors. On us every petty, telltale movement is now tightened.

And so the community called civilized, sluggishly dull and stagnant. Our lives, if we hang in the swamp of indifference in the air of tesped uncertainty as unworthy victims, hanging silently until the next tweaked relief.

Yet we feel our yarrow-life bliss among the hidden career beds, camouflaged ceda-romantics - making us Ariadne's thread of Existence the thudding beats of our hesitant hearts.

The greed for money demands our clarity, ever more violently. We might as well dream the American dream if we could - let us not yet stake our only life on these coveted, pink syrupy, temporary dreams.

It is not good for something to be right or final merely for material gain. Above the sinking souls there must be a winged angel to redeem and protect the light that shines with fragmentary light.

We do not deliberately ask for spikes of power that can be hurled at us. Let the gains of treachery be left to those for whom everything and everyone was but a petty plaything, and who are now all sons and servants of No Man! In defence of the feared Existence, it would be well to look within ourselves one last time!

Empathy-tolerance within ourselves. Nice speech nobly subversive sermons are all too little for the graffiti preachers of this century. Our days are swarming, like the million-year-old volcano that slumbers for the last time before eruptions, and while party queens flash their drunken self-consciousness in the latest fashions - the glorious company of lobbyists misses out on winning bids: the present gallant, helpless world can only hurt and gripe - tabloid media broadcasting sensationalist deceptions, spouting and screaming brainwashed propaganda.

But it is in vain to make education impossible when self-educated people have survived. A million times more conquering stubbornness, protesting resistance, than shrunken submission. An age of wrangling litigation rather than false submission. No longer to bow and scrape to Rolex-watching nobodies or kiss *** in front of canary-voiced titters.

We must oppose this inglorious, grotesque century, which daily tramples on prudent common sense: no need to blink at it, nor is it inglorious. From now on, it is no longer the insidious hypocrisy, the merciless chess-hazard game of points - in the depths of our souls, it is not only the yoked, fake slogans that make us universally say no to the boorish styles of judgmental morality.

Intellectual ideas should be used to educate the true heroes of the Age to become European gentlemen, with thoughtful responsibility and not with protection. If only we could have time to regard the eccentric, the blind, the lame as human, peace would be restored to our troubled hearts!

While life and level differences are already layered on the human soul; conscious construction also has its drawbacks. The verdict of an authenticated, deliberately falsified reality is almost unappealable. It is now less and less possible to extort the maintenance livelihood, as some stupid, forbidden-taboo hunger pang. Because the light of reason and free-thought quickly boils away even in meat pots; it burns, or, as they say, it sticks to it, like mud-jam.

The Present Time - if it exists at all - is certainly not an encouraging promise. Because it can never hurt if the little man builds his castles of cards with internal motives. Inner, instinctual movements shrink into walls by themselves, and because it's as if the person already feels it; with its individuality, almost an entire changing era appears. The cat-and-mouse game of Time - in many cases - is exposed, as it is so obvious. As if Life no longer wants to record itself on canvas, so that Apokfrif's encrypted coordinate codes can be deciphered, more and more hairline cracks squirm in front of the uncertain Future.

Before Doom, he will warm up again, maybe even turn his face back, the wanderer who has been consciously running away all his life. Because what happens when there are no more memories, thoughts, or ideas after the Man?! Is the metamorphosis of the Beginning and the End slipping away? Because the seeds of reason should blossom in the conscience, even if there were anything left here that was still human. - Because he knows it well! A tiny speck of dust, you can only be a sign that you were here alive alone!

The modern recording machine records a falsely composed bed scene with a broken lens, set in reverse, with pseudo-manipulative movements. The derailed formula of movements and hasty grotesque situations is reflected in the cat-and-mouse fighting feats of effective plays. Both actors: each other's corrupt, pretentious, vile accomplice interpreters, simply because they want to captivate at any cost the vibrations of truly important moments in film history.

In the set room furnished with illusions, in addition to the arrogant, phlegmatic director and cinematographer, greedy, prowling eyes scan the prey-creating inspiration with vulture-eyes: how could they do their authentic-original work even better? Lumpy, ***-bellied bellies, athletically slim, navel-piercing bodies strain against each other while, with longing, playful instincts, both immerse themselves in the effective lies of the devilish flirting game, and if they're lucky, there's no need to repeat anything.

Between casual timers, money-laying hens and roosters nestle in tense restless uncertainty like the best blood professionals in the film industry. Suddenly, a clapper clicks loudly, and the director who got bloodshot stood up to everyone in Heureka mode: ,That's it! Thanks!" – The two characters are still standing, seemingly hesitant in their ecstatic indecision; there is, and certainly cannot be, anything to blame on them.

They shake hands and kiss each other on the cheek. "You were able to give so much of yourself! I think the recording turned out great!" - And the hypocritical version of congratulations, blabbered to the point of mutuality, rains succinctly and benevolently on their disbelieving heads. The World and its sensation-seeking, curious viewers were once again successfully and effectively beaten for one and a half to two hours, freed from their temporary, small-scale, pathetic problem.

Now it is still a questionable mass of doubt and persistently massive uncertainty; a whole series of tiny, smallest manipulative links, when suddenly, unexpectedly, a person can't really know if he can endure any longer and instead decides to compromise with himself and the world, thus selling his selfish and greedy soul, because destined to live and survive.

He becomes a pitiful, petty echo of himself because he wasn't careful enough. On the secret Apocryphal network of blood vessels pulsating in a uniform rhythm, the pure One-essence suddenly emerges on the map of the mind: instincts-feelings, the constituent elements of the Universe, as well as the romantic overtones, revealing gesture-dialogues, which - especially nowadays - do not even seem to have a woodworm. they could not be sold for value, they could be exchanged at will for any amount of money, since the inner composite Soul would be an integral part.

Any number of decades can pass and the frail person will not notice how many details he has missed just because he was forced to listen to the advice of his slave-owning, sociopathic, gut-wrenching boss, according to which: as much profit as possible can create blissful happiness and satisfaction. - How petty, transparent, and nauseating are all the pretentious, small-scale attempts, with which they try to make the simple average believe that they, too, can be worth as much as the dominating Stroman-heads.

Now, step by step, it is necessary to step on sticky, slimy, sandcastle soil hesitantly, wobbly, like a drunk tightrope walker, and the moral axiom is becoming more and more true: "You can't trust anyone, because they will betray you, destroy you, leave you alone!" this is how a person wanders from his shipwrecked, storm-beaten step-life towards his shadow country!

You are standing on the penultimate rung of the ladder, looking at where you can still find yourself in this filthy, cesspool, hardly human, useless, miserable existence; stale-smelling self-awareness supplements are digitized not only by websites, but also by meaningless reports of vain, superficial, arrogant monologues between people. Your morning musings are guarded by the *****, worn drawers of your desk.

Because you know: again the desperate, fruitless trying, the wingless, senseless scratching, that nothing and no one is what it always seemed to be anymore, and that the human onion skin-Soul does not voluntarily open the floodgates of its inner self. And again the Sisyphean silence of the terrible, soul-consuming weights; you can't be free here, only abroad. You languish in timeless captivity decade after decade, like a prisoner who never finds a place to roam, as the life-giving marrow and idyllic memories of romantic loves suddenly and quickly leak out of your damp bones.

If you think about will and actions, they shouldn't seem like compulsions engraved in yesterday; moments are petty, the grinding mill of Alamus is also nervously unrelenting. Everything that you can still see tangibly can be easily realized: it is a false illusion, which was used as a temporary bribe by a pompous and delicate stroman director.

It's a revolving dream-vision that you want to gag, when you're fired the moment you commit the crime, because you stayed true to yourself and for Christmas gift baskets, for a predictable party - not so much - you never degraded yourself to the point of searching for opportunities to assert yourself in a pseudo-consecrated manner.

Now ask yourself: how many bumblebees, fools, and fools would hold a chance as a helping hand for you, while they would be dragged to the stake unnoticed just because of their misdemeanor in the wrong place at the wrong time?!

Caught on the merciless defiance side of indifferent shadows, in the lap of filth-powdered wind-funnels, what can be identified as defenseless or even defenseless, I wonder what will happen if a person is insidiously mixed up in sterilized gestures and movements with an unflinching, statue-rigid face?!

The life belt of objects that provide intimate security will surely soon let go, while indifferent look-alikes stuck on the surface dictate the latest useless fashion, for trends. Even the unfinished things are not allowed to be properly completed.

Even the most beautiful harmony often becomes like the flapping of a butterfly's wing stuck on a needle. With a transparent umbilical cord cover, it would be nice to be securely attached to Someone even on invisible threads.

Without wings, the dreary days of Time swing in our unconscious self. Man has already become a leech, a parasite, rocking on the shores of Nothingness, lost in purpose: his swaddle is lack, and the even more useless emptiness, which - no matter how much he wants it - doesn't ask!

Unlucky souls, they all slide to the ground on the broken ice of the moment. The insidious creatures of the merciless, hectic hustle and bustle of everyday life could hide behind their contours. Disguised messengers and prophets of bygone times are forced to roam around in the bushes.

At a time of lurking, enticing, riotous danger, legend-dropping darkness, brainwashed idiots dream of just such fairy tales. – In the stillness of the wind, it becomes more and more difficult to break up the hazy night.

You have become what you never wanted to be in your whole life; closed book, closed door. You never denied yourself in a million ways, because you were guided by "be true to yourself" in your shipwrecked life; even so, you were pushed aside many times, trampled on, deliberately laughed at, and amidst the shackles and cries of public shaming, at least one person who would honestly lift you up would have been fine , and it helps.

A deafening silence embraces you with wailing despair, eternal promises that come to nothing, just like ice drops, sooner or later start to melt. You can't really warm up to a single word now, since most of those who stayed out there betrayed you a bit by always only promising their affairs and that they would visit you in a dignified and faithful manner. Your convulsive clinginess has become more of a curse than a blessing.

Distances have been impassable for a long time, because you don't know who's motivations might lie behind each manipulative, petty-puffing decision?! Ghost-shadows lying on the edge of alleys comfort your stubborn temper, even if you go behind the scenes of a sparsely lit, dim street detail. Now, all time-wasting rants are grouped into senseless, cacophony.

Your truth-begging sadness, just like your self-conscious orphanhood, is still holding on, but - maybe - not for long. You still have to somehow scrape together tooth and nail and preserve your inner independent freedom, while - for now - they can't censor it, and they can't even ban it. The grim, rowdy, petty man-million damns me! As a stone on the side of the road, somehow you're just out there listening more and more humbly!