In my wavering, active forehead, I now struggle with grunts; I cultivate a culture of willful, unshakable faith, while the fearful world outside would be crushed by my winged voices. The secret acne of the elements can be heard all the way to the soul's visceral depth. In the superstitious moments of the Universe, only we can be vigilant enough to save ourselves from the hell that is present.
The secret ascetic-arbitrary teaches selfishness. It is the camouflage, forced creation, work to get the most out of it and by all means. My being is dipped in the mirrors of my wounded soul, which both reverse the true sincerity of their faces. The paralyzed, hibernating-evil words burn and curse at the same time - pushing me into the depths of my defenses every day. It is necessary for me to get to know myself better if I want to move forward.
The dream, desperate for fear, always disrupts my attempts after my deep-fried failures. In my heart fluttering like a purple chalice, delirious anger and melancholy, vengeful resistance is deliberately ignited: in every case, unusual, insidious eyelash fluttering reveals that the lady's eyes are fooled. With a clenched soul, I am still vulnerable in the Infinite Time.
And I still hope that my vulnerable heart is thrown to someone on the last day. "Immersed in a squeezed, slippery silence that sticks to me as a balm in a metaphysical, resilient state, I must surely find the redemptive glances of virgins who cherish secrets and loves!"
