Being little people, we search further and further along the road in the holy joys of small, petty rebellions; for which we do not yet have to pay in money, and which - so far - have not been deliberately stolen from us by a higher power. Despite innumerable taboos, they still drive the bleating herd of people out into the field on certain grounds, just let them scurry and chant until dawn to their heart's content. The human-smelling movements of existence are also regulated by new and new decrees, protocols, and forms that smell of paper and parchment, if necessary or not; a road builder, a bricklayer, or a baker rarely gives a certificate, but even so, quite a few times - it happens - they spit in the kneaded bread or roll dough.

And for some reason, even the common man may feel that the intention to change spatial location, or the cheap, easy option of going abroad would be less and less legitimate or fair play, since there too interest-relations make it necessary. Perhaps this is why man is now trying to filter himself from three directions: on the altars of deficiency-filling inhibitions and suspicious doubts, as well as on the catafalque of inner psychological Deficiencies - under the crumbling burdens of wavering inner balances, it cannot be such a good thing for the old fools.

As decades come and go, he carries the cheap, viscerally raw vision and image of the fall between the grinding gears of twitching nervous systems, even though he is only mortal and a speck of dust at the same time and believes that he has managed to conserve something after all. Because they can no longer love the three billion lonely Universe or call it their home, the dehumanized Nirvana-nothing descends and deliberately ***** it in all at once!

Perhaps it was all the same: the predictable certainty of the steps, like the aged footprints of old loves, which the ocean once drew in the sand. The past shattered shards of glass into smithereens. The weighty mass of scoldings, curse words, and nasty words can no longer be satisfaction or a legitimate retaliatory strike towards the sure redemptive forgiveness; because deep down in the confused, wounded Soul, the flower *** is already rattling into tiny pieces again, and there is no more worldly, massive glue that could fit more than a million pieces together.

Well, this is how Everything is formed; the cherishing, caressing voice of the Beloved no longer calls out from the echoing silence. Silence with an intermittent rhythm walks its rhythmless tightrope dances, because the kettle drum rhythm of the waning waves of the present also beats in the deaf ears. Why is it that every moment believed to be eternal has an unpredictable end and is hyperactive and restless?!

- The ever-drifting event of Nirvana-nothing seems to culminate crystal clear in the present minutes. The wolf-howl is accumulating in the manner of mini-atomic bombs ready to explode in the throats of screaming, ready-to-climb, ready-to-dive wolves. The clustered fear stretches to the shoulders, just like the Cassandra-scented ominousness.

Many-stringed screams hang, then ripen with a luscious, juicy pleasure, like a bunch or two of nectar-rich grapes. The massive-solid prison walls surrounding a person are increasingly hopeless, there is absolutely no escape from them.

Above our heads, nuclear mushroom clouds, - perhaps - tiny missiles are circling instead of clouds. The empty, indifferent footprints of promises have long since disintegrated. Perhaps everything and everyone is beginning to find their own truth simply by getting tired or simply giving up on the possibilities that are running out. The petty tumbles of doubts and failures gradually become whole; they are worn out by the millstone of Being, which grinds and clicks at the same time and finally grinds.

Good Samaritans are not certain to arrive in the pre-determined Times; anything can happen to those who ask for mercy or are robbed, just as anything can happen to those who are already there, who are always taking advantage of others. Yet everything works badly if neither sin, nor filth, nor bedbugs can touch them, since all that is needed is a small, necessary, foreseen detour to ensure that the path of development, believed to be stubborn, is still secured. The other day, we are already convulsing in more and more Gordian knots; we are wasting half days in traffic jams sniffing out mass-collision accidents, when and where?

And while even surface transport does not really want to move under a smoke - we are forced to swallow the mole-like silence of the underground metro tunnels, tolerating it, because we are constantly missing deadlines. The wings of the angel of the happy joys that can be found have been cut off by someone; a bleeding stump rises and while a fierce suspicion creeps behind us, we will all gradually run out of time in the post-history era. - It became increasingly difficult for bleating sheep to get used to the tolerated sheepishness!

The pondering brain is almost getting more and more tired as it tries to interpret and spell out the instinct-hieroglyphs engraved on the forehead; the total brainwashed chaos in which one has to exist has long been making one stupid and miserable. On the petty secret of Being - he fears - perhaps even then one cannot loosen either padlock or lock. The network of cells and molecules hides continuing secrets.

Where will the final accounting dreams sink to, which should have been said sooner or later?! Big worms in turned-out Gogol cloaks secretly devour small worms; like a sponge, a person is soaked so quickly and effectively by a concluded, petty bargain, a broken agreement, because - unfortunately - the unfriendly thorn is still more tenacious than a violet, halfway between thorns, it is not only the kitchen garden, where even the youth tasted honey nectar in the past, but even now it is deliberately shackled by superior powers.

Every person is locked to his fate, because nowhere can he find a universal key to open the shackles that could finally open its eternal seven-padlock lock; the unworthy, lazy calvary of a small person hangs, to which no one responds. - Even apparent, deceptive loyalty breaks a huge catafalque, if the person for whom it was always intended cannot be sure of his feelings.

One should believe that perhaps the final destination is still waiting for one, only its apparent resting places fall too far away; like a lost, homeless sparrow, like a kind of strange compass, some acquaintances or friends might still accompany one. It would be nice to cross the Glass Mountain, the spacious Óperencia, so that one knows with certainty that one will return! - Sooner or later, if we are not careful, we may all become dizzy in the gaping Nothingness!

The darkness seeps
from a crack
it finds beneath the door,
clawing across the hardwood—
a carpet
of matted blackness.
This shadow,
creeping closer,
while I lie
still in bed,
carries a whispered chill
upon its Stygian shoulders.

It stops—
a grim omen,
crouching, looming
at the foot of my bed—
and simply, horribly—

waits.

Does it know
that I’m awake?
Does it feel
my growing fear?
And my heart
thrashes within my chest.

It doesn’t move—
only waits.
But something in the dark,
some unseen presence
leans in close
to my face—

and sighs—

©️2025

Perhaps it would be better to finally break our evil-faced, evil-livered mirrors, so that they can finally see with wise hearts that see the soul, and not with eyes that can be deceived; perhaps the somersaults and blunders of the past will once and for all be broken and they will increasingly look towards the future. Today, one can rarely believe: the only blacksmith of blessed, profiteering blind luck is someone other than oneself - stepping on the flower pots of tomorrows, Existence also leaks away unspeakably, while only reason and sober thought rise above instinct molecules. Now, mourning birds, humiliated even in their pride, are wandering in frightened loops and circles; they may have long been accustomed to the storm, breakage, and suffering that the ugly life offers them. Halfway between the ominous and the deadly, the tempted danger escaped between them, the tortured, thirsty pleasure was injected into the love struggle of hearts as a temporary happiness-drunkenness.

Perhaps only from the depths of the soul can the ancient tower of silences, rattling on invisible chains, protest, rebel; a strange, worldly voice that loses its meaning. Like the frozen Eskimos forgotten here above the fragile hole, people also stare into their embezzled future, increasingly deprived of hope. Beyond Being, Time with closed eyes still yawns towards man, opens its Charybdis-mouth, while a death's-head moth flies by the lamplight and brings unwary others to the top...

The trembling body of virtues, already washed away, trampled, falls down, then lies down for good; they slowly sink into forced conditionals. Some unfriendly buildings tower over high-rise office buildings with broken dominance.

See you in captivity How many times have I wished, when I was a grass-boy, to creep into the actors' dressing rooms through the secret snail passages, like an invisible, otherworldly friendly ghost, a wandering spirit. It would have been nice then, disappointed and a little cheated, to step onto the spacious, creaking boards and, like Pious Yorick, Fastaff, or Graciano, with his head held high among the spectators, confessing the petty, naive, seemingly innocent, holy lies of everyday life.

Oh, in my mind I was greeted in Thalia's noble panopticon as an old returning guest who would only stay until he could see his favorite actress's face up close and wish her: "Big hat" - for her public appearance.

- A sly joke, a human gesture - the theater didn't do much, because money was always coming down the drain, and because an actor's hands were always tied! He sticks a drawn smile, a glued halo, angel wings on himself, so that the average person would always believe faithfully that Reality was just a kind of forgivable, idyllic appearance, a childish little nonsense. I could never understand how anyone could play a character and radically transform his or her mundaneness, behavior, etiquette and whatnot - why is it that after stepping off the boards that represent the world, the murderer would take over hubris-arrogance, haughty phlegm-excellence?!

"That was just a role, Dear Sir! I hope you understand!" - he replied. - I watched the sadness and restless hurt flow in my vulnerable soul and, like an orphaned child, I burst into tears in protest in one of the renovated restrooms, while outside the great play that deceived everyone was still going on!

When I had met them for the last time, I was forced to lie in the depths of wild, proliferating Christian bushes, like a thief fat sarcoma, but not to hit any more; The enforced, deeply hidden, brutal-backing age asked me to testify and obey several times. They had no idea that the last time would be.

Now, only I look at the bench-windows of the time, close-up doors that closed, rusted doors in the alarm, spiclishes-it would have been good, like an invisible, stray shadow only to disappear once more, to disappear in the alley of the streets ...

For the curse of the presence on the wall of the Commissioner is still shining, which, as a disease, was with me from the cursed childhood; Infections of the polarities that are tensioned with each other, the infections of the small atagonisms, can be almost cozy. "Certainly, because life is increasingly absurd, nonsense, uncertain, just like the free -thought intellect, which has an increasingly expandable border and endpoints."

Can the human soul be excluded from itself; you. that you want to stay less and less for adults?! Instead, he would choose the minutes of carefree, playful childhood, and a momentary joy: it would be good to climb a smaller hill so that one could at least see through our stone walls!