In the signs of the future constellations of the future, sober mind is hardly spinning. Loose, casual mostly English-filled words go through alpine, tacom-**** style between the debris of the existing everyday language and speech; It is the only curse of eternal, spiral manifestations, as the petty, manipulative spirit of modern cyber rebellion is increasingly shaped in feverish celebrity and party-faced clone.

The XXI. The feverish science of the 20th century vocabulary will not be more than a mere pathetic ridicule, which is approached by a curved, mummy-image professor with a scientist, who is close to the principles of scientist-hitting, they are.

Now, the podium of wet cathedrals from the gluttonous hands of the crap and the gluttonous hands, just like the majority of farm schools left without central heating; After all, the quality, high-quality education for wealthier students is ducal and while hard-to-be-loyal Sagittarius Misik began to be a hole in the small town streets in the dragged Kalucsnik, perhaps, what kind of life can they still be?

A single row of compassion -certainly not many -is less and less listening to the companies of thoughtful sober, because the grinding parable is not worth it here; No livelihood life will be sufficient to become educated again not only the average mass man-but the hyena century. Cells, secret, apocryphally smell, rarely create lively action, deed, ready to develop, determined will.

With a moodlessness, only devil-cramped ******* can only rattle, digging their selfish, self-curtains; Because now it is more, while nothing is humiliated and is already humming itself on the sediment of everyday life!

Far beyond the bush weeds and cattails, past the mossy rock and cedar grove - there is a place only a few lucky souls can see.
A place where mushroom capped gnomes and butterfly winged faeries dance under the moonlight.
Smoke plumes from small pebble stacked chimneys as fireflies float about lighting the grove.
A magical place of whimsy, where the faeries play and the Treefolk root the woods.
The life force of the wild, the heart of the forest, hidden to most, but for those who know, the busy bodies are always working.

The ancient grief-accusing, the empty Present still looks back and forth on the past believed to be forgotten; fate-born sneaking fears, pitiful, small bargains-contracts frame the increasingly Sisyphean, more and more turbulent everyday lives of this modern mass-man. Fate - if it existed - drags everything and everyone down, because it must blindly lead man hesitantly stumbling, still groping to know that he could not have lived in vain. Now, the wills of withered mummies are gnawing at their nests, and the closed handcuffs-locks lock their millions, not just an uncertain boundary line, which is always reshaped and reshaped at will by great powers ready to mess around.

The decay that has already begun now - it may seem - is becoming more and more massive, since even mere everyday Existence has become stuck in a swampy desire for something tangible; there is no way out. In the underworld depths of the Soul, infected, festering sorrows speak and testify about it; what should have been done and done differently, so that even the tolerated humility could become more livable?!

- Because now, apocryphal letters in books dream their forgotten dream lives in a hundred ways instead of man, which only go to the privileged as compensation. On the wrong paths that hide the past, a chain of shame-handcuffs is already stretched, starting to rust; the sinful soul is also pregnant with shadows, that in many cases it has left it free, calculating, to be dictated by manipulable promises instead of sober, considered ideas and free thoughts, and in return they can pay for delayed reparations.

Now you are slandered to death by petty, envious suspicions, accused of treachery without evidence, like most petty accomplices, sued like webs of minutes. Because the candle stub of existence reaches down to the visceral bones, a dark pit for mortal men to reach...