The intended solitude and proud-stubborn silence seem to be his second self; since he is already trying to completely isolate himself from the outside world, since the world has already lied to itself a lot behind its petty bargains. He cannot, although he has tried not only through the pores of his skin, but also viscerally, to withdraw, because for some reason most people still believe in the growing suspicions.

Now, feigning innocence, those who once kicked the younger ones with spiked boot marks, just because they were unwilling to pay defense money in the schools, are defending themselves. All unnecessary, unworthy attempts and resistance were pitiful. Stubborn braininess these days is just an occasional deaf brainwashed awareness that even the average person can have something to add to their milk.

A historical short circuit can occur with an unexpected bird rustle again; a nuclear mushroom cloud here, an expandable Katyusha rocket there. And the stripped man from the distance of historical ages cannot resolve in his soul the concealed coordinates of the so-called zone of silence. Since everything today is so complex, delighting in opacity, it is quite natural that he can give petty reasons for further, inexplicable suspicion.

Hectically trembling, the charm of one wrong idea that wants to innovate collapses one after another; an inevitable confrontation passes from one soul to another in a petty-compromising manner, until an artificially manipulative betrayal occurs. The infinite depth also perhaps changes as it reflects the conflicts of interest of selfish Reality. Consuming the bruises caused by sins, the subconscious uncertainty grows in everyone!

A hitman walks in silent breeze
No one sees him among the trees
A name is whispered marked for end
Hitman ready to go and he

Shows no anger or fear
Not even a tear in his eye and
His task is known the target near
A single shot the man is clipped and
The shadow's gone beneath the sun.

Because some ******, pitiful excuse almost always pulls me back, and later immediately pushes me back; some tempted, inner restlessness locks itself in the most vulnerable inner bird nests of the soul, about which only I can know, since others, even spies and accomplices, can reveal what is only conveyed on the surface.

Secrets should be kept, even in this current world, the agents-reporters of the tabloid media go and go in and out of each other's private lives, like cheap paparazzi after a juicy gossip-hungry sensation. Tigers with claws are already rubbing against Being, sharpening their teeth, hoping that they will be able to have the useful, moxing-mongrel, at the expense of others, like when someone whispers unexpected buried words, still softly rocking before finally severing the umbilical cord of relationship after the immortal Everything.

The streams of the jellyfish-Times are still swinging on the horizontal plane of hourglass minutes, like adrenaline-addicted tightrope walkers. If loyalty and trust are now blossoming in your empty palm, it is no longer just a suspicious undertaking, but also an enterprise to be trampled, since it is of no use; the spear of goodness is rusty, chipped, broken into them one by one, petty suspicions break the tempted, lasting mistake into small syllables, perhaps it would be better to walk the tiny rungs of the ladder of sighs with loyal friends; because prolonged silence and procrastination also have their octopus claws.

The rusty, creaking gates in the spiral staircase of memory rarely open at the command of Alzheimer's; the groans of the mute are heard, the chronically crippled limp on crutches to collect the money of fat insurance companies, while the fat merchants now pawn everything and everyone, even their treasures. Somewhere, the locks of Being have begun to open unconsciously, like a sharp pimple that cannot be squeezed out - it can only be scratched!