An invisible tremor inoculated unnoticed into the nodes; it ***** up invisibly at once, surrounds, and does not let go of its unsuspecting victims with its octopus tentacles. The truth is known in the order of the World: No one can be innocent enough, because - as is well known - not only the wild will to live began with birth, but perhaps also the realization that we are dependent on ourselves. A spiral chain of unnoticed infectious diseases inoculated into the visceral certainty of the bones, which can also be caused by age-related changes.

Lack swirls like a vortex, because it has secretly stretched itself onto the polar surfaces of the skin; it would not be necessary for the fierce and fierce vicissitudes of everyday life to drag its shipwrecked people along unnoticed, to speak - often - because there is no one to do so. The petty axioms of hissing denials are organically enclosed within oneself, because one still believes that it is somewhat better to cope in finite solitude.

We dream of a single touch throughout a lifetime, which we could not receive in a million and one forms enough, neither from our mother nor from our beloved, it would perhaps have been better to cling to the manipulable promises of friendly handshakes, if we could have wanted something to finally happen. In the tunnels of the blood vessels, in airtight oxygen capsules, instincts and desires also travel in order, as in public transport.

Most people would now prefer clear clarity, common sense for themselves, not the preaching of false slogans that almost never get us anywhere. - The cheap appearance of lazy indifference should be eliminated sooner or later, because we have had enough of the offerings of puddles.

In our golden, dust-sized Existence-Time, we all travel like stowaways along blind tracks, walking our own soul-killing Odyssey; as if we already guessed in advance what our good mother gave birth to us for, struggling for life. Maybe then, even as half-groping blind children, it was good to believe to ourselves that there could be a purpose and value to the fact that we are still here, and that we want to be somewhere.

Like hidden shadows or sacred radiance, our secrets are either this way or that - but they will remain with us forever if we do not tell them to anyone; the comfort of fake smiles that intrude on a person may not really excite us anymore, since almost all of them are false, fake, or just tinsel. As if Reality, of which we are unconsciously part, like pieces of cells or microparticles, wanted to knock more and more frequently.

It would be nice to be filled with unearthly harmonies in the lap of the Universe in the hope of a fuller life; the peaks of rock-hearts have pierced the torn canvases of my soul a million times, and there was no one who could have promised to heal me. We have been stuck outside the gate of redeeming salvation for a long time, which was closed with seven padlocks. The soul, which has already received enough careless pain, nurtures cacti of solitudes alone, the memory preserves torn dreams.

Why do we constantly feel that our every move, our DNA instinct, and the physical blueprint of our genetics are full of doubt and hesitation, if we even dare to go through the stages of the life journeys we have begun, or walk in the sacred captivity of balmy sunsets on the beach, where the shore can only be filled with people with perfect bodies?! There is still a long way to go until we realize this, if only there were always someone standing by our side as a helping hand to show us the way through the swamp of confusion!

This present, gloomy, wretched Time rattles its iron keys; many seven-locked doors creak so that later they will finally close, because now even those who could once have been prophets or small-time heralds are sinking into the tower of silence. The materialistic spirit of the given era is driving more and more people into an unhappiness dubbed permanent. Because now there is only one law: to squeeze profit even from the poorest stratum.

The barriers have also been soaked in us, which we built primarily so that even those who once professed with loyalty: I love you, could not get to know us well. Your sleeping enemies are hovering around you, like the giggling hyena hordes, with whom you can no longer do anything, because they reappear again and again in the fabric of your life; Life, which does not wait to swim or frolic, sends you messages with reckless, lazy thrusts - but twists your full, barely attainable possibilities.

Everyone can only pretend to have this great hypocritical happiness, which has become the sole right and privilege of the minute-man on the outskirts of the tabloid media. The present is now increasingly vulture-like. It always gnaws at its prey bones and greasy slobbers at the expense of others. Hypocrites in robes increasingly submit to some difficult-to-understand rule, which others have imposed on their heads; after all, sluggish ignorance is perhaps still better than the weighty Sisyphusian knowledge.

We are also deceived by the curse of everyday life, by the sack of evil, from which penny-worth of good deeds rarely rattle or fall, and the truth grafted into honesty, which is spoken by mouths and lips but rarely understood, is an increasingly bitter, rotting fruit. Even reason is witnessing falsified eras, because the objective sources have all been lost or destroyed. Even the cold Reality is becoming more and more malleable, more flammable.

You constantly wander the path of angelic walks, as if you secretly suspect that a child's face is looking back at you from the crooked depths of mirrors, which seems to never age, yet you often think of it as an old man. The uncertain future is also an increasingly crippled ladder, because you lie to yourself when you think you can still fix or change anything.

The fever curve of your willful pride seems to be deliberately shot through in the morning by a stray arrow of conscious doubts; gurgling noises secretly terrify you, in case they might disturb you or harm you even more; the Present dissolves instantly, even if you are not willing to take care of it, apart from your skin that wants to peel, you still speak with broken Apocryphal signs, but only those who accept it completely and as a whole can understand it.

Halfway between swaying rows of walls, you are forced to stumble like the occasional drunkard, because you are afraid to know the one-essence; perhaps only the great Nirvana-nothing can await you with more complete loyalty, without giving itself away. Yet, in the rocky depths of your knowable soul, the eternal child who you have always been envelops itself in swirling silence! Memory and humility purr within you, perhaps only until you recognize the One-Beloved again, who will accompany you for a lifetime!

The Golden Horse of the Present cannot be collected by man these days; he would rather let his own selfish footprint, which could have at least testified to his having lived and existed here, be lost and lost in the silent Times. His dry soul is simultaneously squeezed by the bittersweet tears of sorrow that rise from the depths of his gut, which he has always shed for Someone, and never for himself.

He knows about himself: the freshly cut green blade of grass will sooner or later bury anyone, even if he is careful. Where have the cheap, petty plans of the day after tomorrow's scheming gone?!

Desire was a deliberately shortened vanity, just like the instinct instilled in biology, because life itself had become increasingly complicated, and the appearance of tolerance, which we wished to possess by right of birth, could hardly be endured, because it would be good to tattoo question marks into the window of the vile blind mind, so that there would be light in the brainwashed Gorgon heads.

The footprints of those leaving and those arriving - I fear - cannot even meet halfway; it seems as if man himself, as an idle observer, were constantly postponing the unexpected landing, which would still be left from his shallow lifestyle. Because the painted parody of the future, nicknamed the future, seemed to have long since nested itself in the mud of possible tomorrows!

It was not enough that our spiritual stigma wounds repeatedly opened up after experiencing a more serious tragedy of fate, but it was as if our invisible fate had secretly taken revenge on us, simply by turning against us; how many times is it necessary to pay an eternal, untimely debt?! Money, work, nature may no longer be enough, because souls must and must be devoured here and now, because will and humility have ceased to exist, just like sincere trust.

Like a bottomless pit, one time continuum provides a passage to the other; Anger and fear, as well as nagging anger, nowadays often enter into a pact with each other in the name of harmfulness, because the flavors of intoxicating kisses now have the smell of rotten apples, from the distance of time, an unsolicited whisper slowly trickles down, warning the weak person: wake up to Reality!

Their pathetic self-pity has been deliberately slowed down, its second round will only come when each person learns to value themselves enough to not have to dig their daily well-deserved dinner out of the stinking piles of garbage containers, because there was no other.

The lady also prefers to scrape the pretzel from her fried meat, because it increases the risk of cellulite and then she will no longer be so supermodel-perfect in her fierce bikini. A complicated struggle in the soul is the result of deepening pockets, which everyone keeps to themselves and cannot show to anyone; Even manipulable mistakes will become completely human, as long as there is always at least one person to make sure they understand!

As if one could sense at once that the passage of Time, like aging, is some kind of manipulable, unexpectedly prepared, live prelude to the uncertain, increasingly burdensome, because when Being ages, not only the physical attributes, but also the soul, the actors in the outside world, and relatives are less and less willing, or even more and more deliberately, to ignore those who have become useless in their greedy, petty eyes.

The wind constantly brings the sermons of old men and dog barking, that often a simple person cannot even feel like living; the latest pension plan is more of a labyrinth twisted into itself, a pitiful experiment, because no one has yet managed to build stable houses of cards from the little extras. As if they were deliberately banging their heads against concrete walls, because they know that they will never break like a humanoid skull.

A panopticon of empty illusions and imaginations still embraces its childish victims who want to hope. But for what?! The spinach-green language of executioner times keeps playing, pulling people to their liking. As if everyone is deliberately trying to outwit the system of sensual disappointments as impressions with their total sobriety, which can be manipulated in the same way by a flirtatious smile, a mischievous, eye-catching, but calculating look; all in vain! If only we could rarely hold on to the salvation of embracing or strange arms!

One day, one will not even notice, and from one's buildable failures and somersaults, a few improvised houses of cards will collapse cheerfully in no time; one day, not only the petty, mischievous baby-tooth premiums, which it would have been good to give to every employee at least towards the end of the year, but also the regular pensions, whose basic value does not change, only their transparency and value are continuously decreasing, will start to leak through every crack.

Because they do not always say what the intentions of the ratings are, let alone keep the individual, the average individual, who cannot know anything about anything, completely calmly under the devilish veil of permanent uncertainty, since reason is already increasingly discouraged and disillusioned and hanging its dream-intoxicated head.

It can be hard to admit that Life is often like a group of crooks and fake card players cheating each other at the same time, because there has long been no honor for thieves, while the stock market speculation on the World Wide Web watches with superior, condescending indifference the pitiful slug-fight, which is usually produced by some social community even several times a day.

They walk around with indifferent Janusz poker faces and, if they like, even wander around a usable industrial or garbage hill, where even cockerels are used to scratching around, hoping to find priceless treasures in the mud. - Thinking a little more carefully, it is only possible to distribute truly essential and extremely important things to say and announcements in a veiled, dosed manner, mainly to those who can afford to pay more for them!

They are not going up the stigma-gradient - they are more like molehills, getting trapped in pitiful holes, going down, just as the standard of living is starting to sink more and more every day and is amortizing itself!