It is necessary to march blindly, panting, even stumbling lamely, like a limp, beaten dog, still here on this earth into uncertain, gloomy tomorrows. My blind, easily manipulated soul trembles at the same time, half-heartedly, lamely, because now again, more and more, seven-trial rascals, no-man's-land thieves, new Szeleburdish petty-knights of reproach are rubbing themselves to their liking, some of whom the Present makes brainwashed and infected and some are merely disordered memories.

Once again, common sense has been trampled into the mud, everything beneath it is suspicious-false, because there is no longer a chance for a sincere true word, nor for a trust that firmly questions itself. Now, even a few sheep have been raised to be sufficiently humble, herded, so as not to bite a few privileged ones. The dreamy macaw no longer murmurs a dignified yes under its botoxed catfish mouth, because first the new husband should show his checking cards and his occasional merchant wealth, which he has collected with stamps.

Now the permanent filth is still accumulating and flowing down below, like sewage laden with feces. No matter how many times that secret, inner voice speaks back in the secret cave systems of the soul, the rusting cogwheel brain would in vain grasp what it is that it can still surely lose; because secretly - perhaps - it has long been robbed of human dignity, not to mention other rights.

Error and blind faith nowadays simultaneously justify a cheater, an assassin, a robber, while the simple man would perhaps be better off hiding in the gaping pits of Dante. A person would like to be ready for a sure escape for a long time; As a wandering earthly wanderer, he would perform his selfish, begging round dances for Existence, but who can beg for his life at the same time?!

You are not and can now be totally independent; a vile, tiny worm is making its way into your flesh, like some infectious disease, a desperate, hypocritical attempt to change anything in a dignified way, a completely meaningless, pitiful series of wild instincts that have lost their wings; sooner or later, with quiet indifference, the crumbly lump that obstructs the network of blood vessels with its heavy Sisyphean rocks will just fall off your heart, so that you can prolong your life for at least twenty or thirty seconds.

Every minute, the permanent, indestructible Maya veil of transience floats over your head. Timelessness makes life uninteresting, which cannot be started anew every single day, because secretly everything remains a reflex of your selfish body, an everyday simultaneous. Like a faded, lifeless donkey skin, the pores of your skin also feel the template, the cancer of superficial exhibitionism.

As if not only the Hangman's death, but also the consciousness of loneliness, that you can count on no one but yourself, has been breathing down your neck for a thin life. Knee pain, torturing hemorrhoids, a hearty cholesterol bomb that have taken over your life; from the medium of Time that separates you, perhaps a helping hand will bend down to you, to help you up early, because a gray, old eternal child looks back at you from shop windows.

From the echoing darkness of the underworld, some secret, inner fall will begin, which perhaps only you yourself can understand; existence itself is a jungle, a withered Nirvana-desert, a riddle, which it would be good to finally solve, so that you can know and understand what your task and business is here!

My deeply hidden inner restlessness often finds me when it only walks the depths of my crouching trap-soul; Sisyphean boulders are cut first into tears, then into pearls with a buzzing, persistent work of the universal melancholy with the smell of spleen, carefully guarded. So many billions of instinct-splits of cosmic forces ready to crumble, the torn, abandoned hawthorn bush revolves like a sleepless swarm of bees, from which a camp of brainwashed idiots regularly light screaming bonfires.

My impulses are bound by Zhivágó’s gales, they would not let me go, because now I am still standing up to my waist, hesitant, often helplessly in my unfinished, ridiculous affairs, and it is no longer my mere actions that define me - but rather the devilish spasm-like convulsions of the soul, which not even the dog can hear.

With concentrated attention, I tie days together again, like the echoes of some strange coordinates, so that I can feel and know that I am going in the right direction.

Like a broken-hearted *******, I throw away the weight of my often useless memories, which still tempt me in the fangs of nights crouching in the form of my recurring nightmares: I should still hold on to myself tooth and nail, with the all-conquering holy tiger-will, as long as possible and as long as my prisoner-body allows it at all by the speeding highways of the rampant, daily changing, and worn-out cell-molecule tendrils.

It would be good to live a little longer, as if the free thought that continues into infinity, thirsting for independence, were to be rocked quietly by white silence, as if the one-Dear, who could still promise to wait for me from the far reaches of other shores. Black-eyed supplicants ring out in humming-melancholy voices while a Damocles-sword blade rests hissingly over my balding orthopedic head!

It would be even better if the given promise-word would not just settle as a hearsay deliberately in deaf ears, would cover the brainwashed brains and the cranial cavity like a beneficial ivy; in beating hearts, even so, echoing formations could still take shape, the raw dough-leaven of trust and sincerity. Everyday life has long since become associated with something sticky, nauseating, yet celebratory, but false grandeur.

In eternal fate-sabbath formulas, attraction and repulsion seem to strain themselves simultaneously; between opportunity and conscious failure, perhaps it is better for a person to choose the latter, since the conscious curse of his mortality awaits him anyway. Things just happen, but you never know why or how the answers will be.

As if every earthly step, a gathering of superficial-lying faces were heading somewhere, silver-plated stars tattooed their eternal fate into the pitch-black night like their selfish, own Apocryphal signs, while the weak man remained below with his earthly sinful burdens. The eternal weaving of Being and Time through the instinctive walls of cells is finally fulfilled.

The stuffy noisy competition of people is now shaken by the automatic, roaring rhythmic voice of machines; man could hardly be further from man now. It would be good to shed once and for all the hours of boredom, when the immortal soul, indifferently languishing, only comes to grow old within us, and, arm in arm with death and fate, but still defying, everything that could once have existed as a goal, as a far-sounding, holy will, should rumble everywhere. Because something definitive, something incomprehensible, only comes together after half of a human life, and the failure of our well-thought-out plans is thrown upon us...

In the signs of the future constellations of the future, sober mind is hardly spinning. Loose, casual mostly English-filled words go through alpine, tacom-**** style between the debris of the existing everyday language and speech; It is the only curse of eternal, spiral manifestations, as the petty, manipulative spirit of modern cyber rebellion is increasingly shaped in feverish celebrity and party-faced clone.

The XXI. The feverish science of the 20th century vocabulary will not be more than a mere pathetic ridicule, which is approached by a curved, mummy-image professor with a scientist, who is close to the principles of scientist-hitting, they are.

Now, the podium of wet cathedrals from the gluttonous hands of the crap and the gluttonous hands, just like the majority of farm schools left without central heating; After all, the quality, high-quality education for wealthier students is ducal and while hard-to-be-loyal Sagittarius Misik began to be a hole in the small town streets in the dragged Kalucsnik, perhaps, what kind of life can they still be?

A single row of compassion -certainly not many -is less and less listening to the companies of thoughtful sober, because the grinding parable is not worth it here; No livelihood life will be sufficient to become educated again not only the average mass man-but the hyena century. Cells, secret, apocryphally smell, rarely create lively action, deed, ready to develop, determined will.

With a moodlessness, only devil-cramped ******* can only rattle, digging their selfish, self-curtains; Because now it is more, while nothing is humiliated and is already humming itself on the sediment of everyday life!

The ancient grief-accusing, the empty Present still looks back and forth on the past believed to be forgotten; fate-born sneaking fears, pitiful, small bargains-contracts frame the increasingly Sisyphean, more and more turbulent everyday lives of this modern mass-man. Fate - if it existed - drags everything and everyone down, because it must blindly lead man hesitantly stumbling, still groping to know that he could not have lived in vain. Now, the wills of withered mummies are gnawing at their nests, and the closed handcuffs-locks lock their millions, not just an uncertain boundary line, which is always reshaped and reshaped at will by great powers ready to mess around.

The decay that has already begun now - it may seem - is becoming more and more massive, since even mere everyday Existence has become stuck in a swampy desire for something tangible; there is no way out. In the underworld depths of the Soul, infected, festering sorrows speak and testify about it; what should have been done and done differently, so that even the tolerated humility could become more livable?!

- Because now, apocryphal letters in books dream their forgotten dream lives in a hundred ways instead of man, which only go to the privileged as compensation. On the wrong paths that hide the past, a chain of shame-handcuffs is already stretched, starting to rust; the sinful soul is also pregnant with shadows, that in many cases it has left it free, calculating, to be dictated by manipulable promises instead of sober, considered ideas and free thoughts, and in return they can pay for delayed reparations.

Now you are slandered to death by petty, envious suspicions, accused of treachery without evidence, like most petty accomplices, sued like webs of minutes. Because the candle stub of existence reaches down to the visceral bones, a dark pit for mortal men to reach...

The intended solitude and proud-stubborn silence seem to be his second self; since he is already trying to completely isolate himself from the outside world, since the world has already lied to itself a lot behind its petty bargains. He cannot, although he has tried not only through the pores of his skin, but also viscerally, to withdraw, because for some reason most people still believe in the growing suspicions.

Now, feigning innocence, those who once kicked the younger ones with spiked boot marks, just because they were unwilling to pay defense money in the schools, are defending themselves. All unnecessary, unworthy attempts and resistance were pitiful. Stubborn braininess these days is just an occasional deaf brainwashed awareness that even the average person can have something to add to their milk.

A historical short circuit can occur with an unexpected bird rustle again; a nuclear mushroom cloud here, an expandable Katyusha rocket there. And the stripped man from the distance of historical ages cannot resolve in his soul the concealed coordinates of the so-called zone of silence. Since everything today is so complex, delighting in opacity, it is quite natural that he can give petty reasons for further, inexplicable suspicion.

Hectically trembling, the charm of one wrong idea that wants to innovate collapses one after another; an inevitable confrontation passes from one soul to another in a petty-compromising manner, until an artificially manipulative betrayal occurs. The infinite depth also perhaps changes as it reflects the conflicts of interest of selfish Reality. Consuming the bruises caused by sins, the subconscious uncertainty grows in everyone!

Because some ******, pitiful excuse almost always pulls me back, and later immediately pushes me back; some tempted, inner restlessness locks itself in the most vulnerable inner bird nests of the soul, about which only I can know, since others, even spies and accomplices, can reveal what is only conveyed on the surface.

Secrets should be kept, even in this current world, the agents-reporters of the tabloid media go and go in and out of each other's private lives, like cheap paparazzi after a juicy gossip-hungry sensation. Tigers with claws are already rubbing against Being, sharpening their teeth, hoping that they will be able to have the useful, moxing-mongrel, at the expense of others, like when someone whispers unexpected buried words, still softly rocking before finally severing the umbilical cord of relationship after the immortal Everything.

The streams of the jellyfish-Times are still swinging on the horizontal plane of hourglass minutes, like adrenaline-addicted tightrope walkers. If loyalty and trust are now blossoming in your empty palm, it is no longer just a suspicious undertaking, but also an enterprise to be trampled, since it is of no use; the spear of goodness is rusty, chipped, broken into them one by one, petty suspicions break the tempted, lasting mistake into small syllables, perhaps it would be better to walk the tiny rungs of the ladder of sighs with loyal friends; because prolonged silence and procrastination also have their octopus claws.

The rusty, creaking gates in the spiral staircase of memory rarely open at the command of Alzheimer's; the groans of the mute are heard, the chronically crippled limp on crutches to collect the money of fat insurance companies, while the fat merchants now pawn everything and everyone, even their treasures. Somewhere, the locks of Being have begun to open unconsciously, like a sharp pimple that cannot be squeezed out - it can only be scratched!

Thunderous, wild, unbridled noises break the intimate laws of silence; on deaf porches greedy, barking dogs howl their petty verbal sermons about livable lifestyles. Many people are already so eager to immediately open up to - not only - the all-knowing Universe as a curiosity, the superficial duality penetrates to the marrow and viscera, from which it may seem that even the common man is unable to escape. Not only technological development has reached an exponentially dying point, reaching astronomical distances: healthcare, education, etc. The race for the cane has been deliberately abandoned after one seemingly unattainable project after another. They have been inoculated into an oversaturated hopelessness - perhaps - and a little bit of the ecstasy of envious jealousies.

The inventory of culture entrusted to us by thinking, modern minds is getting poorer; promises are receding on the far edges of a sinking horizon, and stray hopes, crumpled dream images can still be dug up from the past, like precious treasures believed to be priceless.

As if the voracious, gluttonous Time were now deliberately swallowing everything and everyone. It would be good to finally bring to the surface the aimless goals believed to have sunk; because now, locked between the horizons of brainwashed minds, independent free thought is hesitantly teetering, because even the stately apple tree of ignorance is shadowless. Millions of cat cries throb in the depths of wasteful minds.

Today, the mass-man is produced on nimble, busy assembly lines, just like a resold commodity that can be sacrificed and neglected; They must stumble hesitantly, like the souls of the dead, through an entire standing life!