Time, believed to be infinite, can still turn like a dagger in the hearts, like a silent state close to infarction. The suffering of the fleeting, earthly life will eventually return to itself; every remaining memory bursts out like a drowning man in the throat, because the soul can only stammer hesitantly. Idle, fettered patience still urges its victims not to rest, but rather to action.

Hidden rays of sunlight remain here from the lost Summer, because as a curious wanderer of extremes, although man falls to the ground, he still goes on and on, as long as his edematous, water-soaked lame legs can hold him; because now they are trampling even more and more furiously – if necessary, if not – value, good friends, helpful intentions, if that is what is needed to impress superficial strangers.

The crystal-clear presence that cuts through waking life with a scalpel still drags me into the grip of uncertain tomorrows; your neck on a leash, like some godless noose from which there is rarely any sure escape, neither near nor saving grace will let you go. You stumble as long as you can, one foot after the other, like a chronic drunk homeless person, and you cannot understand that in the mole tunnels of the subway, when a threatening snaking train screams, will there be anyone who will provide first aid, while the emergency services are often thirty minutes late?!

Like leeches, these superficial, self-serving celebrity faces; there is no one who would not burrow beneath the surface, manipulate their bitterly collected digital followers, so that they can even make pretend friendships as a pretense for the sake of a sweet post.

The inner core of personality is constantly weighed down by stereotypes and prejudices; those who still dream of sincere, true knowledge are forced to be stewards. They carry their selfish, predictable vices on their shoulders, which would have happened anyway, if they had not happened to them in the abysses of their past. Perhaps it is better if they remain a vice forever and become a dormant convalescent, who rather feigns a long, prolonged sleep, like the majority of chronic necrophiliacs, just so that they can finally escape what is really waiting for them.

Even the greedily offended summer residents are increasingly involuntarily overtaken by permanent oblivion; they scatter themselves among so many dubious flatterers, while a series of counter-thrusts knock them down again and again. As if in a looming emptiness, he is still searching for someone on whom he can count in every fateful situation of existence; he will slowly reach the finish line, slowly overtaking himself.

With the brutal morbidity of smiles, everyone is slowly letting themselves fall apart, because he can hardly do anything else. Brainwashed drunks are now even eating the spiritual food pantry of free thoughts out there, if there is anything left to grab.

Cautious love is increasingly rare in including awkward, experimental lines, invitations that it would be appropriate to participate in and show up at. Mysterious longings pass unnoticed from one moment to the next, because this whole thing that this raging outside World is doing to itself is so neurotic that it has completely surpassed the chronic fever curves of nonsense and blood-curdling grotesqueness.