Oh, how many more titanically baptized, melancholic Ages, in which creative loneliness still resonates?! Sensationalism, a blind window of color blindness of devotion. Because even now the known and definite human yes and no mutual gambling game is constantly straining against each other; more and more at the mercy of a higher power every day, no one wants to accept the inexorable contradictions that could even supplement the foundations that have become unstable like a house of cards?!

The human soul today is more like a closed, secret book, which should be opened and turned carefully; one must understand the multifaceted meaning of the hidden Morse and Apocryphal codes if one wants to read it. In any case, it is increasingly difficult to gain safe entry through the wide keyhole of brainwashed skulls. – Even those who are ready for action are increasingly finding indifferent readiness everywhere.

The quarrelsome preachers could one day be replaced by a peaceful, wise spiritual agitator. A horde of grunting rascals is now huddled on the ruins of the world, they do not know how to survive their uncertain future. Because it is easier to exist confined to an inner infinity than to play around in the name of free will. The wretched, tinsel-like business shop has been handed over to gnawing rats and mice.

Because a clever phrase wants to puff itself up again and again on the shoulders of some straw men. – Now they are even burning invisible seals and stamps not only into the skin, but also into the chasms of the soul. The bowing, slobbering penguins are limping into this melancholy age; because they may know them as Executioners or good friends, they make a nicely gesticulated obeisance.

They serve spoiled food specialties and seafood to the unsuspecting VIP - star guests, who have especially delicate stomachs anyway. And while quite a few have just switched to the pleasures of zero-calorie diets and paleo diets as a fashion, they also deliberately make themselves ***** so that they can fit into the new trendy and fashionable clothing collection in time!

The morning, light summer breeze, as if it were already breaking the rope of our executioner; dark worries and troubles are entering everyday life, now driving stealthy, talkative conditions here and there, until they can only fit on their roaring throats. As if the scarecrows were voluntarily sitting on each other's backs, impaled. As if everyone's eyes and mouths had been sewn shut with the weights of padlocks, just so that they wouldn't have to protest or rebel.

- A deliberately thickened powder plaster spreads over the models' faces, but who can see their real, hidden faces?! It would be better to turn two truthful mirrors to face each other, to see who is lying and who is still telling the appearance-truth. As if the yellowed copy were already rolling itself backwards out of habit; how we should have become when we were still full of world-saving dreams and childish plans, our ever-increasing debts to others, so we ***** ourselves.

As if we should deliberately celebrate our conscious inadequacy. We are quite stuck in this already viscerally self-depriving robber Age, from which there is no way out; because mortals may still suspect that waiting is in every respect only the privilege and virtue of the dead, they have put together so many hackneyed, futile farewell sentences. The celestial stars dreaming of happiness hidden in superstitious eyes are carrying out a celestial degradation.

Wherever the simple average person turns, the excrement and ***** smell that spreads in the old sink of the Universe greets him, and the walled-in, meager poverty-stricken pension awaits him deep in mailboxes, which is not enough for anything, at most only for starvation. The only time your shaving day will end is if the Gillette blade accidentally cuts you off and hits an orphaned artery!

I often find myself in the crossfire of my actions and words, like condemned prisoners awaiting their own execution, tolerated and resigned, who have nothing more to lose and perhaps can never have anything more to lose. My cheekbones are covered with tearful petals, which curl back halfway, because like rusting rabbi's handcuffs: my extravagant, yet murderously honest words ring out on me, which no one understands and which not even the dog is interested in.

It would be nice if there were some inner arctic melting deep in my vulnerable, much-experienced heart, which would melt everything and heal my selfish, stigmatized wounds. My uncertain Future hangs on thin ropes, as I cannot even guess the weight of the temporary questions and answers that surround me unnoticed and often blackmail me, just like the massive camp of the demanding.

They may think that just another sucker or a tamed wild beast has got in their way, if they see that I go into myself every single day to decipher the value of the present. Conscience is most similar to an oceanic howl, which keeps speaking to me from deep within, and whose wise words should be listened to and heeded. – They often cannot even see it, since it is hidden, like almost so many things: a secret earthquake, a volcanic eruption rumbles on my face hidden deep within, like a tense heart attack that comes with stress.

I will escape, you will see, like a strange, disciplined guest-courier, who was only invited as a guest, for a surprisingly short time and will no longer be beaten by either real estate or fist-law. – My dreams lie on top of each other, which are unachievable for the next twenty to thirty years due to the lack of financial and human resources.

Useless, depressing summers suddenly become nothing, and like a balloon they burst; it is better to deliberately avoid irritable people, even if one risks the open Gandhian freedom from conflict, since it is always the same ones who do the sensational mischief for the world. A party queen of mimicry and hysteria, racing on endless petty steps, who even replaces the so-called dead night around her at will.

The world of sincere human feelings has begun to decay. The "how much I love you!" "I only need you, because with you I can still be myself" - phrases that were so good to listen to back then in the moments of the beginning love intoxication, because the first happier meeting was swallowed up by some unknown, strange, strange crack, a gaping hole, as if someone had smuggled a gluttonous Discontinuity between the beating hearts.

Nowadays, not even the dog is very curious about our half-sentences that have been nervous for decades, hesitantly mumbled, because everything has become superficial, negotiated, breakable contracts, which are followed by a new one that can be manipulated and challenged.

- The two mirror faces are paralyzed into identical grimaces, because deep down they already know that they have lost because their unconditional love and selfless trust have been shattered. The boredom of romantic desires often bores me precisely because of this, because the other party is also increasingly suspicious.

Like some cursed, black widow A fierce malaise surrounds a person everywhere, if he stumbles upon superficial, meaningless promises and statements; he drowns in forced, hemorrhoid-causing laughter, which should have happened so that he could not later return to the prison walls of conscious Lack!

Things, people, and petty moments seem to be running away from me now, even though I do not question them or interrogate them; it is no longer enough to simply pay attention to them or to turn to them in a way that is hypocritical and manipulative, when the outside world is merely playing itself out again in a hypocritical manner. Inside my soul, the earth-shaking desire to escape my seemingly restless ethereal stress and tension once and for all and to free myself from the sins of my frail earthly affairs still rages incessantly.

Philosophical tendencies that weave cobwebs still start tremblingly, hesitantly, if the interpretation of real life is the set and only essential goal; the Soul is at the mercy of, and unprotected from, a single, utterable, honest, tingling tremor, which only a heart can give to a heart. I keep shouting at the little child inside me, who often wants to stomp, and who dares to speak the truth for me.

I just don't have to tolerate the fact that the stumbling, vile memory rattles its crunchy, withered branches above my head, wanting to break off. I am still forced to exist in an increasingly vulnerable, sensitive zone, where I cannot be accepted, only a passing stranger, Silent pathnomios rummaging through the garbage of the day, hoping to find Darius' treasures. People, like determined criminals, are trying to rush along small, invisible, stretched tracks, more and more determined, after their increasingly pathetic, meaningless, useless plans!

A persistent air of weakness may flare up, when the hesitant tunnels of the blood vessels may be torn open by a careless heart attack; the blood clots as big as rocks would hear the cry for help, which the restless heart probes in vain. As if it had become increasingly difficult, more burdensome to break down the silence of the liveable, visceral Reality, which is inevitably present and surrounds you. Generous sadness also forces a person in an increasingly persistent state to no longer be permanently happy and satisfied, since happiness is not a permanently constant state of mind, - but rather a forced euphoric agitation. The beating heart may crumble into its own purple, in its own muscles, if it is unable to listen to the words of the law of the Universe in this earthly existence.

Every person's lonely island story seems to have been born subconsciously, and could only exist in the floating ocean of inner thoughts, because it has nothing to do with the actual massive Reality. Because the weight of feelings, touches, and moods has become colorless, which would still have significance if they had once been created and acted upon in giving. The fierce mass tumult of blood molecules is simultaneously burned or destroyed by attraction and repulsion, the inevitable, indestructible pulsation.

Every single hesitantly successful act or deed now seems to release the certain impossible from itself!

Now there are still different Columbuses, because the motto is not always: "Keep it quiet for the West!" - not everything is on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, but it is still enough for a more livable life, about twenty or thirty light years away. Because the deepening labyrinth-pits that we can dig ourselves, rent, have become more and more common; on the waves of stock market prices, the killer predatory leech-fish, the sharks are increasingly winning, even if they have to play Russian roulette with themselves, in this way they gamble a little.

And it is increasingly the case that it is no longer the noon bell that precisely signals the end of a given job - but the summit meetings that last up to thirty-six hours, meaningless business conferences, where foreign creditors must be honeyed and glazed, to convince them with ***-licking, why they should invest their money in us. Instead of flesh-and-blood people, they ask for a mechanized Pinocchio for a meeting.

And if we take it that way, even in the dating situation, it is increasingly embarrassing for the majority of divas who are plasticized as teenagers when some average little man keeps complimenting them and comes up with the laws of the Universe. Instead of Grimm's fairy tales, today's modern children stare at reality show news on their Tablets, because how could they have learned who the evil, ugly witch is and who the good house fairy is?! Thus deporting contemporary literary cultures.

- It is increasingly noticeable that vandals and Suleimans have become more ambitious and greedy, just like the deceitful demagogues who usurp each other's thrones at the carnival of the modern nuclear age. Banking truths are fierce its hooves are pounding on the necks of increasingly oppressed creditors.

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.