My friend, you better realize: if you want real gems, just look into the superstitious eyes of your Beloved, shining like real pearls, to find the eternal one-answers in the Morse code of immortal love and the Universe. Striding on the traces of Being, defying many millions of obstacles - perhaps -, only the two of you are a unified whole, because you constantly need to gain strength in confidence and blind luck-hope that wants to be renewed.

Your little people, ordinary things are not as clear as you think; some sufficiently clumsy, gibberish word-plurality has been welded together from the clumsy coordinates of repetitive, boringly repeated sets of ideas; why can't the endless night shift combined with reasoning lead anywhere?! - It seems that our constantly busy mind is already grinding away at the often uncontrollable fateful events without them. Why do you always feel that thinking rationally and logically is just vain self-deception?!

Losing your patience, giving up your ant-like diligence in a manipulable and bargain-bound way, you can increasingly recognize yourself in the series of superficial, slimy exhibitionist jokes that the infected tabloid media throws at you with understanding patience every second.

My friend! Unfortunately, be careful! We have become damaged, amputated savages, and only half-human wrecks, who have been deceived a lot, and I believe have been led astray in their gullibility. Your vulnerable heart can no longer ache only in a separate purple petal-shell, if you ask it nicely not to bleed in its aching pain. - The romantic, happier idyll, the illusion-appearance, has become a disguised fugitive. Bosch could not have painted it as a more inspired hellish, underworldly vision!

The pathetic exhibitionist worms searching the surface thought that they could find the semantic, more real meaning of how in the useless, two-dimensional power of the subconscious superego; perhaps they were no longer really interested in walling up their own petty vanity, like the Masons Kelemen and Kelemenne, who were volunteers. It would have been better if the self-evident fragments of silence had opened the rusty soul gates, where only the viscerally stripped Adam and Eve costumes mattered and not the material goods, such as: who is earning more than a million right now?!

Because the vain, stubborn person, having lost the deeply hidden, humiliated childhood that keeps so many secrets, constantly wants to look at himself only from the outside. – In the Universe before Existence, the primordial vibration, like some encrypted Morse code, still trembles all the time, invisible, but no one would notice; it would be good, like a butterfly, to pupate a little into each other's crystal-clear souls, where only honesty, unconditional nobility and goodness exist, – excluding the harmful intent of lies.

Consciousness, like some automatic machine, struggles feverishly with itself amidst the Sisyphean burdens of the burdened everyday life; our instincts have become an eternally thirsty, wounded Nirvana desert. Like a mad lapping wave, we rush after our unattainable desires, like drowning people who can be further manipulated and exploited.

We were just girls
Lili and I
when Dad brought her home,
a heartbeat wrapped in fur.
Mom sighed, already bracing for the chaos she swore she never wanted.

With every nudge of her nose,
Mom’s walls softened.
Even during the puppy messes, there was joy my mom won’t admit
but I saw it in the way she stroked Luli’s head
like she’d always belonged.

Luli was our first lesson
in what love should be:
patient, gentle, loyal,
comforting without condition.

Then I left.
Two years.
And I hoped the pictures lied that she wasn’t as thin,
that her eyes still sparkled, that her kidneys hadn’t turned against her tiny frame.

But when I saw her,
truth hit like a lump in my throat.
She was fragile, fading
but her spirit, unchanged.
She still wagged her tail
like I’d never left.
And in that moment,
I knew she remembered.
All of it.

Luli wasn’t just our first dog.
She was our quiet proof
that real love is soft,
and never needs to be loud to last.

Sometimes hope is cruel
because it made me believe
she’d look just like before.
And reality?
It reminded me I was right,
right to fear that, that was the last time
I’d ever hold her.

And I wonder
if she laid there, eyes dimming,
thinking of us
of Lili by her side, whispering comfort,
of Dad’s proud smile the day he brought her home,
of Mom’s hands that once hesitated,
but grew to cradle her like a secret she never meant to love.

And maybe…
maybe she waited for me, the one she hadn’t seen since summer
hoping I’d come through the door just once more,
so she could rest knowing we were whole again, just like before.