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!

It is becoming increasingly difficult to survive in the court of time-spinning frog-kingdoms, since - it seems - worms and insect offspring seem to be permanent, and faithful ***-lickers and sole-lickers continue to appear in the long, slimy trails of snails. A well-known game of chance, just like the Russian roulette tricked into the spleen, will be a predictable downfall at the same time, since the person himself is hiding himself in it, and because nowadays the wise donkeys are laughed at just as much as the fools in Hamlet, because among the vile and inferior moles only the the blind tunnel that serves as an escape is the only worthy one that can still merit the possible alternative truths of the proofs.

Why are the more important explanations behind things barely decipherable?! In mass communication, which has begun to atrophy, someone always makes mistakes for selfish, greedy, manipulative reasons, symbolic intentions, without exception. Pimples and padlocks on the corners of the lips were handcuffed by one stray word of truth, while there are more and more brainless roots in the crowded parking lots of supermarkets and plazas. Skilled people give and take not only *** portraits, but even human lives. The rye-marred, raven-fateful autumn season also labors with deliberate obscurity, when the ever-increasing number of witnesses and watchers are barely able to light the world.

If he has already crossed the Threshold of Being in such a way that the human-smelling, Calvary-soul cannot tolerate determined or revenge-thirsty anger; at most, only the eternally creative and renewing intellect could start new actions and things deemed capable of development. Once again, unforeseeable events had to happen, if at all one wants to come to one's senses.

Now just think about that little boy who was sad and anxious to the core, who kept crying, and then there is no need for false words, curvy mirrors, another Janus face, another mask that covers everything. If something binds you, chains you to life, to the world - break, destroy the obstacles that bind your existence with the defiance of a lion and the courage of a swaggering pepper.

If you can no longer be free, because forced happiness, an arranged marriage forces you into rage, even then DON'T GIVE UP! Just think now of the millions of treasures of unbridled memories beating inside you, and then there will be no need for unnecessary words. Then there will be a face from the present, a mask on it, and also a third person who is taking shape, who can now manipulate the explained, convoluted lies at any time.

Then your once innocent, naked face—your soul—will be less visible. Then the brainwashed, deliberately blunted, dumbed-down reality is worth nothing more than a renewed, falsified consciousness based on an already unprofitable formula.

In fact! You don't need them, because flattering words and sweet-sounding promises are completely unnecessary for you. Your vanity is a murderous, narcissistic desire. Everything is embodied in a mirror, ready to show you - your soul, not even like that - can guess or feel the chemically pure truth.

It is enough if you collect a single bright but honest teardrop that lasts until the grave and immediately knock on the door of Someone's heart one by one until you gain admission. "Your troubled past violently pulls you out of your life every day."

Your life - whether you like it or not - is an ominously lurking metaphor, or just a silently resounding rock song, which always needs Someone to fulfill the completed finitude within you!

You know very well: the breast of vulnerability fed you, and you soon realized that you are all alone in the face of the temptations of the confused, sneaky world. The inner boundaries of your personality - take good care of yourself - can collapse completely in a single careless moment. Thorns of stigma-pain flourish in you, while you have an incurable longing for the pitiful love you have stolen from others, which - as you yourself know - cannot be unconditional, let alone selfless.

You are constantly rather dissatisfied, while the weight of tons of years cries and wails over you. As a clinger, you tend to invent varied, deliberately colored lies for yourself, just so that you can escape and survive the next uncertain Tomorrows. The Universe - you once said yourself - has totally destroyed you, humiliated you to the ground, and even trampled you quite a few times, since you were never able to claim for yourself even the crumbs of the degraded, extinct human rights. The now permanent solitude connected with creative solitude has turned into desolation in your everyday life.

Your ever-doubting mind, eager to think, would constantly search for missed opportunities, but - as you know - there are fewer and fewer cultural value-saviors, who do their work not only for cheap interests and unnecessary, inflated fees - but for the sake of May the legacy of anonymous whistleblowers, deliberately hidden, be preserved in safe hands.

Even now, your hesitant movements and gestures are increasingly filled with unnameable expectations; your shared secrets - he is afraid - no one can protect them enough. There are harder, tougher days, when in reality you would rather get rid of yourself, but in every case the demanding Present pulls you back. There is someone sitting on the edge of your selfish, tyrannical torments and self-mutilation, pointing only at you!

I've been through this many times. I carried humility like an evil little garaboncia of resentment. The heavy shackles of despised destruction, secret promises-guarantees for better and happier tomorrows. Many left-behind eccentrics flocked to me, until eventually they too soon wore off and ran out.

He held an angel-scented flirt, a charm-grinning look, and if I had to, I showed: who, when and where can it fully prevail? I gave everyone - who hasn't told me yet - a chance for a second fresh start, so that this time they could get to know me better and really.

I put before them the trust of true friendships thought to be forgotten. – When suicidal, wandering thoughts began to take over, and there was no one to talk to or report to.

People with families have a million times more to do. And instead, they appointed more fluidly the official, legal, online connectors of friendships. Rather, they distributed the right to make false promises and links among themselves. "I've been through this many times."

In the neighborhood, a baby-child screamed in a nerve-wracking way, as if this was the only way to protest and argue with the existing Order. Connived and frivolous, sooner or later everyone gives in and even the gentle stars lie down from the high sky. Those who have had a secret assignment here and there cannot forget for a single minute that their existence as a cultural rescuer is more and nobler than even everyday challenges!