#lyre
Life, with its unpredictable flow, has just stopped at your feet; halfway between two inward bounding infinities - you would hardly admit it to yourself - you have been stuck for a long time, like someone suffering from pathological constipation. You stand in its crowded No Man's Land and you would rather shrink yourself, instead of finally fulfilling yourself.
As if lost, you would voluntarily hold yourself back and rather exile yourself from this big world, so that you would not have to look at the wolf's eye as a surplus with vile, hand-holding promises, which some compromising friends have forced on you as a shortage, or you would have to spend countless profit reports on a multitude of results reports, because with the final blow of Being, it totally delivers you, but it also keeps you in constant dependence. Perhaps it is better if praise and humble intentions keep trickling down from noble people, which is still going on; the patience of the actor, ingrained in human faces like moldy **** is the bribed. The great powers are tinkering with a degraded historical era, patching it up.
Fickle-minded men pedal with those knocked out of the ring, saying: "That's how it should be!" Why didn't the loser-fool surrender?!" - As if the sweet lightness were one with the black compulsions, the crumbs of impending silences, the certain infinity floats above our heads with eel-like slowness, which we can barely see even now...
You have a yearning for faith, a liar, a sluggish life, because you made deals, and so sooner or later you became everyone's debtor; the wild tolerance you believed to be insoluble, to which you clung while you did your things, has also become tamed into an impassable ditch. A person is now constantly standing in the depths of cubic silences, like some creeper, hesitant, because there is nothing to cling to. Your petty evils have put on a mask, like a child's toy, they are still playing hide-and-seek with you, - but be careful, maybe - not for long!
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 1:43 AM UTC
This melancholy Age has planted a golden seal on the stores of longing cells, molecules, and instincts. Every single day the fall itself stumbles, and useless counterarguments; pitiful soul-secrets begin to sob deep within you. who could have brought it to what?!
Because the mirror-heart that has become breakable is washed inside by true pearls, and thus the bitter, truthful-word is silent in them, like the mole-depths of wells. On narrow, cloud-faces, holy-evil is conceived, as man would like to keep up with his insidious chess moves to the core of history in vain. He throws a snag, then collapses so many useless, idyllic, dream-image-visions conceived in uselessness; because guilt seems to have universally died out not only from our souls - but also from our weathered bones. With the sour smell of sweat, we seem to be completely dependent on ourselves; the mass-man also empties itself in the inexcusable finiteness of a series of Nirvana-lacks.
Because man - since he can hardly do anything else - is forced to rush all his life towards the periphery of the uncertain Nothing, because later he will return to the invisible infinity anyway. Echo-words of duplicated cries echoed under caned rib cages... In the wave encounters of instinct-lives, Someone-Someone has always sinned. In their hidden misadventures, the feeling of stigma-loss settles under the human skin. Why does a fateful expectation have to be hidden?!
The spirit rarely builds castles in the air from expelled mother-killing words. In every case, a persistent, self-destructive self-blame gnaws at a person in every stubborn moment, so that one can only thrash about, like a worm stuck in a tree. Now the ancient principle of "hands wash hands, and an eye for an eye" remains in effect. Roosters scratch at their garbage heaps to their heart's content and scoop it all up for themselves.
Dec 29, 2025
Dec 29, 2025 at 2:17 AM UTC
The seemingly crowded nerve poisons of everyday life seem to be gradually drumming in the molehills of your hearing ear; you don't even notice how your sweaty palms feel for the rusting keys of the memory crumbs of your past. You cherish the hard-to-bear laundry of your days in your depraved head for days on end. In this current Age, nothing else can be a vigilant, hunted fugitive; your life - I fear - may never truly catch up with you if you always deliberately run away from it. The thirsty, vulnerable blood-soul is still being immersed.
You would still wait for that certain inner, compelling spiritual burden to be eased somewhere, sometime, by someone, but you are unable to accept that the sober interest of helping can no longer eradicate worms.
Because in this current distorted, flawed World, the tears of missed lives seem to be running like endless movies; the corruptible silence of conscious uncertainty is straining itself, a soul explosion that is about to die out would be pulled home like a rough magnet. The impossible spasm, like some strange, inexplicable dream image, still holds you captive - but maybe - not for long.
The empathy poison of acceptance still glows unwaveringly within you, but of course only if you allow yourself to become even more vulnerable, more exposed, because the scenes of life must also be wallpapered so that the conscious Lack can be lived... Because unconsciously, endless cosmic rivers are being built inside you, like a labyrinth, which the knotted, gloomy anxiety has built within you.
One day - if you really wanted to - you could tear apart the gigantic bridges of your complicit silence. Your longing anticipation could also be buried under the guise of undemandingness. Your emptiness that is moving inward becomes more and more vile, more meaningless, as you try to fit together the puzzle pieces of your uncertain Future with melancholy.
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 2:42 AM UTC
Among freshly innervated feelings, it is increasingly difficult to declare that mere Existence is a sure haven. The multiple fatigue of increased attractions and repulsions still consumes its members, in times of disprivilegedness, "some" beg for lucky privileges to their liking, while you have exploited their ancient indifference, profit-gain can only be squeezed out of the average.
They impose the duties of bribery and petty devilish manipulations on the simple average man in every step, because they know exactly that even if he were to speak out in the matter of his self-defense, there is no human law or legislation that would enforce its unquestionable truth for all time. Out there, they are hanging on a string with their slutty sins that can be swept under the carpet, who could have seen helpless, seething-smelling debauchery these days?! Nowadays, free robberies are still more important than the crowded congregations of educated human beings. Today, it is already resounding pathos-lost, bleak sermons, base emotions would not make a truce for a single minute, because why would they?!
Anyone who is already over forty is faced with the fact that they are faithfully guarding and cherishing in their narrowed veins, like a time bomb, the blood clots suspected of being a heart attack. It is as if everyone is already terrified by superstitious cock-talks into permanent, lied-to traitors; a pulling hesitation tightens their caring, visceral members like a string. Like the small but all the more important stars of a football match in crystal vases, they fall, clanging into the Nirvana-nothing, intentionally hidden away because no one was willing to pay enough attention to them.
An Angel, who looks like a ********** on duty, might even talk to the person for a good salary, just so that he doesn't have to go to a psychologist. The moments that were thought to be wasteful - I fear - are already They are irretrievable. Because everyone who exists is running madly into an indifferent, deaf tunnel, and sooner or later the whining Promethean Time will also be devoured by Someone.
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 1:25 AM UTC
Some remaining, unfinished feelings still linger on the shores of restless, storm-beaten hearts; the restless churning of instinct cells closes in on itself on the outskirts of Space and Time. Instead of futile carousel loves, it would be good to safely experience the immortal euphorias of the Universe, because even the cruel Fate seems to be waiting for only one thing - it deliberately seals the individual lines of human tragedy. Walking in the mirror of sinking present times, the panting features of the person who has become can be distorted at any time, like some grotesque reflection.
Because a person - whether he wants to or not - is forced to carry, to carry with him the petty secrets that invite death, which only he alone can know. Even those who want to live can be trampled by any number of soul migrations; lukewarm prosperity can rarely fill the holey stomach of poverty - not even around Christmas - because - undoubtedly - the lovely idlers want to wallow more and more in their own manure piles. Large, lazy animals sleep, a labyrinth of anxious struggles inoculated into the cheap triumph of mediocrity, from which it is increasingly difficult to free oneself.
The yoke of laws that seemed to ossify in rotten indifference is increasingly unbearable to tolerate. Under suspicious, digital magnifying lenses, it is no longer possible to get to know anyone honestly and truly. They always sigh for some cursed, disowned mantra-preaching - especially those - who already have plenty to chop into soup; yet so many would wait with secret cries until the intention to help could become a touch.
As if the great swindler were already leading everything and everyone by the nose. Because now everyone is playing the role of a smiling soul-tender, and anyone who dares to admit that something is wrong in the world can already be a cause for suspicion in the camp of bleating fools.
Dec 26, 2025
Dec 26, 2025 at 1:44 AM UTC
The fearful, trapped mighty ones are no longer held by the trap of dug wolf dens; they are chased and devoured by the pack of sheep bleating insidiously, vast scenes are all split open like the piercing dawns of a fine day, if the treasures of human well-being and attainable happiness must be measured within a set deadline.
"Some" turn back into hungry monkeys yearning to go mad if they interpret the extended, universal principle of "it is better to receive than to give" only for themselves. The various egos and the mind's haughty worldly love - in secrets - still bet against each other, as if they were playing a game of chance with each other, because ideas that are too full of themselves can fail a person at any time, because the burden of past events weighs down the head of a weathered and worried mind. The counterarguments - which anticipated sincere trust - remain here, in a despicable way, orphaned, abandoned, and can fall on people's heads.
A dwarf historical age is not yet certain to put a worthy end to the great beasts. In the servant moments, as in some strange process of vulnerability, they still grab their living victims by the scruff of the neck, and Balázsa Hübelék will be the one who does not act. Because this No Man's Land, which was previously claimed to be stable, is full of stumbling, full of doubts. Silence repeatedly belies those who still listen to it. A wind-silence conscience nests in the human soul in the form of a careful flock of birds.
- You see, the World coincides today; between the plebs and the aristocratic diva-queens, increasingly deepening social chasms yawn. The pearl-of-tears truths are now increasingly reserved for the chosen few and not for close friends, who might have known what it meant to be a janissary child who was chased. As if the endless mine-yours were now continuing in a permanent manner, even on a global scale.
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 1:36 AM UTC
Small, blood-splattered gusts of wind howl above the heads, pushing the onslaughts of the self-uncompromising winter before them; from the instinctive silence of bodies, a crack of silence quietly roars out, and that too is only half audible. Because somehow all silence is conscious, and now lives in permanent captivity, because due to the unbearableness of Being, it is becoming increasingly difficult to get ahead, which would be good for everyone. The petty man of today, like a stupid animal, is walking towards a puppet covered in illusion, from which he is quickly disillusioned, if only he is not awakened.
Once again, superficial, meaningless gaiety and revelry to the core, a party-drama-cavalcade until dawn, which has little meaning, just another stupid festive party, where you can waste the beautiful, the good, the noble, because most people prefer to deliberately measure themselves equal to zero, if there is no other way, and not a laurel wreath grows in every cursed, dazzling rose bush.
Outside, you can increasingly feel as if only the consciously planted Deficiencies are demanding their one-time debt, which - as it were - were already buried at the moment of birth. The indifference-emptiness nicknamed the permanent has been dug up here, just like most manure piles.
The dense Nirvana-nothing waits for its turns that disappear into timelessness, like Godot, while most of the little people breathe their last breath of its lead-free air. Every rejection of assertion is a fatal stroke to the heart. Now, lovely families of rats are playing around at will, mainly on the edges of bridges in a flood of neon light; the balanced tremors are difficult to decipher if there are no signposts on both sides of the Paths of Being, telling people where else they could go in their lives.
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 1:57 AM UTC
Even inner instincts that do not lie to themselves will sooner or later deceive you; how many disappointments, how many petty, manipulative plots, humiliating shames, ugly secrets are still needed for the curse of fulfilled, self-tortured self-accusation to finally fall on the heads of individual people?! Because surprisingly many sluggish offenses still throb in the heart, which is the debtor of the restless, storm-battered Soul. The man who is in labor with Existence is constantly bled by his own judgment Fate.
As if the dream-devouring shadows were walking among us at the same time, because it happens that even among trusts and honesty that are in the process of decaying, everyone sooner or later becomes suspicious. Even those who - exceptionally - dream of culture are forced to stare at the big Celebrity-Ricky starlets shown live on the screens.
Why is the undulating abyss of airy happiness constantly included among man's desires, which he must lose anyway, since he is unable to keep it?! Like a serpentine road, man is being torn apart by the debasing, superficial crumbs of lies. Conspiratorial scheming and toasting are everywhere; because in vain do they regurgitate a whole series of honey-glazed promises twisted into baklava, if they have nothing to do with it, how can they make it come true?
The winding ****** of lies are also increasingly real and do not let go. The instincts have long been shaken by the ebb and flow of existence, nicknamed the permanent; the intestinal circular corridors, which it would have been good for people to walk through at least once of their own free will, are already dwindling in ever-accelerating final beats. A truly feeling heart would do better to inject a little vigilance into the coronary arteries that are beginning to become blocked, which are difficult to operate on with steady hands. He who lives scratches and bruises.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 2:05 AM UTC
The stubborn effort that only man can understand himself; the diminishing regularity of intentions, the inquisitorial midwifery indifference that now - for some reason - is already settling heavily on life; cheap successes and awards should not tempt you irresponsibly either. The petty, merciless logic of cogwheel systems piles up the simple average here and there, and it is increasingly rare to speak up. The more influential seem to deliberately not tolerate petty extremes, in which it would still be good to hold on a little sometimes. Among the mazes of useful lies and half-truths, it is increasingly difficult to find an act guided by sincere intention.
Because now the massive, muddy lake of enduring idiocy is belching even more, while the primitive towers of neo-barbarism are gloomy all around. In the leaden cage of Time, modern man seems to be able to toss and turn, like a tied-up person. A castrated generation is still performing in a circus, scolding and lazing around because it cannot find its place. On hidden paths, the merchants-entrepreneurs who want to make a profit are trapping their dreams.
The daily pinpricks deliberately suffered as cheap little defeats, the pitiful, almost pleasure-seeking pranks of the ambitious and the self-important, i.e. who else can be fooled and robbed lavishly? The ominous warning signs inserted into cynical chess moves, which no one can be curious enough about. The filth-stream of stagnant water that has become rotten to the core of human relationships will finally sweep everyone away.
The Celebrity star dreams of unqualified recognition, just like the five-minute-famous person who stepped into the tabloid media for such and such considerations. This current postmodern century praises thin-headed bloodsucking scoundrels in vain. Where are the librarian prophets who want to philosophize compared to bustling jackal-breakers?! It's as if everyone is being devoured at once by the sea of flesh of life!
Dec 21, 2025
Dec 21, 2025 at 12:48 AM UTC
As if man could now be captured once and for all by the vegetative World, which has advanced to a homogeneous state. As if the infected hemlock cup of conscious shell-solitude should be drained to the bottom - as necessary; offensive indifference, vile suspicion - it may seem - today silent accomplices of a drunken man, everyone is swallowed up by compromises like unreasoning animals, since decency can no longer exist. Like a lurking hyena army, persistent idiocy and indifference threaten its victims, until Death unexpectedly forces the average to its knees. The sense of lasting shame burns out the sense of wasted years, because shameless creepers are now multiplying unnoticed, who never let others assert themselves and kick the ball.
Halfway between birth and death, the sure abyss of despair is already surging within, the proof of the compromises made every day; it is quite a difficult and tiring task to even crawl under the creaking train wheels, let alone survive with the massive sense of security of sleepwalkers. - As if one should accept every new, meaningless defeat and stroke of fate with apathetic resignation.
Only a few can take the risk of starting over. It would be good, therefore, to observe precisely, even if only once in a while, the course of inner events, and what is still missing from the Whole that has been torn into parts. The innermost, secret desires that lurk for betrayals consume the needs of the individual; it would be necessary to get to know the limits of greedy selfishness.
Because there is no credit - either way, or no - for redundant, aimless promises. The Moliere-like risk of mistakes can hardly be taken as a thread; One can only stumble through human-sized dimensions, because they are unaware of the obstacles that Life sets up. It is hardly possible to rest a little in the ruts of everyday life.
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 12:53 AM UTC
The carefree days could never have existed; the everyday worries of today chain the average person like earthly anchors; joy-tide only according to necessity, if it still exists. Because one day everyone will begin their wandering in the invisible Universe, even if during their earthly life prison walls guarded their footprints with greedy eyes, the massive, somewhat grotesque mirror of rebellions is unnecessary to break, since it faithfully shows the distorted provisions of our present. In the Soul, a lost bird sighs and laughs almost constantly.
The ulcerous darkness that seems to congeal also flattens in the depths of the soul's cave, just like the past accused of extravagance. Why must a person meet anyone at every moment as if he were a swaying, drifting shipwreck, which is being deliberately towed towards uncertain shores?! He already dreams his life unnoticed; because in the end he remains rather the last, but still a Man who is still alive, he is pulled to and fro by ominous fate like a puppet in a net. Not only uninvited visitors sneer at him with native smiles.
The years are gaunt crypt faces, they hook the plank fence slats onto their wrinkles, between weekdays and holidays a cursed appearance-hope echoes clearly. Because now he is still imprisoned inside, like a condemned convict, the roar, because the physics of stubborn inertia is still keeping him awake a little.
The city of Nineveh is a lazy, sluggish, immovable burden, which is dragged down by its own Sisyphusian weights into ever deeper swamplands. All that would remain would be exaggerated illusions, like false appearances fabricated by the manufacturers of lies, from which the desire for belonging has long since disappeared. When will brainwashed people shed their hardened chitin armor?!
Dec 19, 2025
Dec 19, 2025 at 1:44 AM UTC
Because the present time, in which we are forced to live, seems like a crumbling race; we live, although it is undeniable, but rather as a burden for the common good, who are burdened by utility bills just like tax burdens, and man would rebel while only his meager existence endures, but in vain he seems to be burdened with heavy burdens, measuring out a fate-future that has been freed into the fabric of defiance-accusation; because no one is really curious anymore: how much more in dust must one crawl and slide like vile snake-spawns for a lifetime?! Is there someone still waiting alone for man on the actual edge of Being, so that they may have to cross the otherworldly rivers of their passings together?!
Many still only suspect that when they carried the baby out at birth into a lifetime of solitude, they could not even know that deep in his soul he would be burdened with the power of conscious solitude. - There were those who, with a smile, contemplated the destruction of the average man, existing among wolves was already suicide in itself; the whole pack, licking their torn wounds, chased him. The entire fold of the forehead was a deep furrow of worry, as if he had deliberately forgotten to smile. One can now know for sure: in the weeds, the roots of Being can only rarely be completely destroyed.
For one marches along secret, invisible caravan routes from the womb to Death, as if the silent accomplice-patience, which is now everyone's worthy companion, were visible everywhere at once; small sparrows flirt with shark-toothed cats, and while here and there one would still have to sue the passages of the parchment-yellow paragraphs, even the average person can quickly realize that he never had any special grace.
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 12:56 AM UTC
Still forced to listen to the silent clicks of time-locks, the bouncing enamel pushed out of his forehead, thus he himself is anxious on this collapsed globe. He has become aimless in his wanderings, a wasteful debtor to Existence; Deep, dark is the pit of Fate, if it is necessary to reach that point to find the final redeeming peace. Among the small pebbles, one could still discover a lost, crumbling snail shell, in which treasures of experience have condensed, which have been collected over long decades.
As if everyone were just whispering into their ears: Take care of yourself, because Tomorrow is unattainable no matter how you try!" - Yesterday's Darius-dream - fear - has long since begun to unravel, it has also awakened in the tiny mirrors of the spiritual eyes - of course - sometimes the self-destructive wilderness. The pettiness of skulking doubters is often more contagious than beneficial.
Because now, towards the end of the year, the situation is once again such that eye-rollers parade around in fancy halls, scolding themselves as they please, even honoring and celebrating how well they fulfilled the non-existent quota throughout the current year and how well the fancy "bread-making" went. As if everyone is pathetically trying to convince themselves, even to themselves, that there is no and is not possible secret interference between Space-Time; after all, the so-called great hunter and brother is already watching everyone.
It is often actually a better solution to stay out of double games altogether, as it involves unnecessary, lasting suffering. It would be nice to return to the womb of the first touches, from where we departed.
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 1:36 AM UTC
As if everyone were now full of impatience, like a half-full glass. With restless actions and actions, a state of gunpowder-filled temper tantrums that could explode at any moment. They would become angel wing crumbs if they were emptied from the abysses of Lack. It would be better if everyone stared at the sins of the grotesque present in multiple distorted mirrors while they could; if their insides were constantly strained by a series of deliberately amplified denials, the living and the victim could rarely find peace and tranquility. Because Being is now more like running through a labyrinth of problems and troubles than an actual, long-lasting solution; It would be better if the wild beast in man were not only silent on the levels of straining instincts in the inner soul spaces, but rather strived with a universal culture that pleases humanists to earn the title of man with decency and behavioral etiquette.
- We are still hesitant now, since the ditch of the Executioner's Time was dug long ago, although they say and profess with their chests pounding that there is no conflict of interest; nowadays materialism and prestige mean much more than truthful words. Will a second so-called omniscience university, where occasional Zhuangzis preach individualistically boastful viewpoints, be sufficient for understanding the wisdoms extended by Stoics?! In this stubborn confusion, even the Nirvana-nothing sits on pigeon guano.
An entire era of restlessness is crucifying itself, because it cannot know the petty, tyrannical rules of manipulation, because Gogol's slave souls are still being taught how to bow profusely as a necessary act of loyalty, or how to lick ***** a lot. Is it appropriate to grow lion claws in situations that are held in hand, even for eternal children, defenseless infants?!
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 12:42 AM UTC
It would be good to understand and measure the remaining no-Time, to reach the outskirts of somehow unknown inner psychological feelings, where perhaps the call of conscious silence and silence can still be heard crystal clear; somewhere, sometime, the exiled faces will come together and be consoled.
Wandering souls only scatter the pre-established geometric orders of Existence, from which they were once taken. It has long been known that on the garbage heap of unfinished things we should survive the massive and indifferent unbearableness of our still unfulfilled things, but the false promise of conspiratorial compromise and each new promising bargain has imposed a straitjacket on human mouths.
Out there, people no longer love each other with just honest, animal fear - but as if, with deliberate pleasure, they are forced to miss their last, smallest chance to make anything better and nobler. The dirt of the crowded everyday life is washed off from people, and what is left is left; even the brainwashed thought systems behind the forehead become crumpleable.
More and more people cherish the monuments of monotony, because, with the broken, rusty wings of color-blind fates, there is hardly anyone who would stand by a person and say: "I will help you, because we were born of the same flesh!" - As if every unnecessary movement were also a rock-load, which is difficult to account for if they ask: how are you?!
Only the final beginning of lasting solitude should be known, free from bargains and contracts. The sincere cries of childhoods that could have been trampled are constantly being dragged out on the urine-stained diapers of the already existing manhood. The persistent stimulus threshold of conscious aloofness will eventually only point the way towards our uncertainty.
Dec 15, 2025
Dec 15, 2025 at 1:24 AM UTC
Slow eternity, even hurried, melancholic minutes, fade away early, because the shackles of our body are carried on, because the Soul will surely, inevitably, break in caterpillar-tormenting pain if its roots are not cared for. All crypt-souls that a person has ever had to deal with are desolate and faceless.
Soul-saving press - at most only - in abandoned library rooms, if they exist, where not only free-thinkers, but rather deliberate withdrawn hermits return, to maintain the imagined appearance of an unattainable humanistic culture. - Because now it seems as if bars are squeezing a person from all sides; brainwashed incomprehension, conscious, trampled indifference, a whole petty set of snarling, meaningless sermons. It would be good to look for a way inward to the palpable wall of the Universe, because the time of the Executioner-Time, knocking and leaking through the crystal lattices of passing away, is calling our sick hearts with an infarction early.
There is no one left to scratch off the infected, decaying plaster of the earthy-smelling dirt with ten nails - I fear -. Like a blood-sucking tick in the skin, small leeches have covered everything outside, and while a simple person, like a frightened animal bleeding from several spiritual stigma wounds, is forced to do and act alone, totally at the mercy of many, because everyone who was still open to the connections of things and feelings back then is now deliberately puppeteered and guarding his greedy-delicate secrets like stingy misers.
Like sick kleptomaniacs who are now collecting everything maniacally; money, a changeable opinion, education, meaningless responsibility, because the spiral of their brains always goes where they hope for more benefit. They make a fuss with pretended jokes, just so that no one will have to remain a human being. They quickly sweep the truth brought by eternal fate underground.
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 2:18 AM UTC
After the conscious push forward - in general - ugly Sisyphusian falls follow. If actions and wills are moved, petty blunders, a person falls one after another, and in each case the struggle to get back on his feet becomes more and more bitter. At any time, a misguided, intentional slip can wash away his cursed limbs, leaving them defenseless.
Even the average person with embryo faith is like a shipwrecked person, cast ashore, hoping that some wasted opportunity will come, in which he could not have had any part for a long time. Only the circulation of blood that scatters echoes can be his own, and therefore uniquely identifiable, everything else is just a tinsel, ***** appearance.
Organic hybrid noises disturb the cosmic harmony that offers fulfillment every second. Silence - fearful -, unable to free itself, therefore becomes angular. Does memory always push you forward or hold you back? A dedicated, sinister assassin waits at the gates of the heart-petals and - perhaps - is only waiting to look for another defenseless, vulnerable trophy.
Time and Timelessness are deliberately being churned out by Being, because great wholes are rarely born one after another. It seems as if man is constantly outgrowing the definitions of his selfish-tyrannical behavior. As if the counter-arguments and evidence for happy satisfaction are being refuted one after another, since they have been voluntarily abandoned for a long time.
Suspicious doubt is increasingly kneading and infecting its innocent victims. Why must the average person already expose himself to the lasting contempt that stigmatizes him?! Those who made frivolous promises and yet nothing happened seem to smell much more dangerous. Will and action are squeezed in the two boundless frontiers. In No Man's Land, Gogol's souls are increasingly crowded together aimlessly and aimlessly.
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 2:29 AM UTC
The temporary state of time now is bare; this is a preserved, wheezing interval of increasingly conscious, wooden indifference, rather than of helpful understanding. Its muddy, sloppy border points seem to be torn apart by the intentional emptiness. As if they are increasingly flowing, unprotected spaces both inside and outside.
The Christmas-scented city of Nineveh is also more of a stinking, ***** onion, whose rejected layers have been stacked on top of each other. The borderland of Today and Tomorrow, ******* in its defenseless victims with its shapeless whirlwinds of quicksand, targets abandoned shores, where some herds of scoundrels lurking on the banks of the river, only open their mouths to complain in distrustful, pleading tones. It seems that not even sacrilege can break or lift the monotonous metronome rhythm of everyday life.
Cynical final tests come and go; the cheap logic of stupid reasoning follows, according to which; responsibility is also deliberately distorted. The given word has become hopelessly ambiguous, and so has a promise, which it would have been good - sometimes - to still hold on to. A person is more likely to tossed about like an orphaned leaf in a fierce wind...
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 1:42 AM UTC
Even now, in silence, the pervasive smell of universal rot settles down. The orphaned passion is more like a panther on the run, or an animal, since it is often unable to decide within itself what it is actually rebelling against. The billowing pitch-black fog foams up and down, as the deed and woe seem to slowly close in towards the four cardinal points.
Cowardly everyday selfishness plays hide-and-seek first in the wandering sea of Universal desires, later in the stormy relationships of love breakups; we wish each other all the best! - only a false appearance-deception remains. Because the embarrassing downfalls are almost - in all cases - also objectified moments of public laughter.
One seems to be aware of it and knows that one can rarely summon the Future as a crown witness. The foam of the old Danube diligently carries softened rat carcasses; Everyone seems to be building their battered, pitiful lives from careless moments, which they can no longer think about in a way that will allow them to safely achieve their goals and dreams. Merciless cycles spread out like unstable houses of cards on the sandy planes of the subconscious blessed with silent rotation; skeletons collapse from their selfish, tyrannical weights and fall into the enduring Underworld; because even now Time and Space bind almost everyone like shackles, whether they want to or not. No intention of helping, nor battered, prophetic humility can be seen on plundered faces.
Timeless misery encloses its victims who have become scapegoats like a cage. Contempt and pity - that's all that could be left - as if they were throwing dice and entrusting simple human logic to blind luck, wondering: Who is the absolute winner or loser?! The greedy carrion birds of idyllic dreams are increasingly hovering above our heads and circling in ambush.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 1:08 AM UTC
The false, hypocritical prophets, like the stars appearing one after another in a million skies, tell tales of false Canaans; they usually forget only one thing, which is that the basket of abundance is full of holes and is never full. For the work of the average man, Existence pays with useless cheapness, and so many pitiful struggles of small faith slowly become mass jokes of ridicule. With tightened dissonances, it is less and less possible to retaliate against false, false apparent harmonies. As if now, the resurrection of broken, deceitful hopes would also be left out in every case. Because the petty bunkers of underworld destinies - surprisingly quickly - collapse if there is no longer enough solid will to act.
That the naked holy solitude of the wasted minutes has often become undressed; the soul-changers would carry wrinkled faces. Because now this current sly Age, in which we were forced to exist, has become quite gluttonous, the tiger's incisors reach straight to our hearts. The Sisyphus weight of those who are satisfied with themselves is increasingly dragging down its victims, because their actions have a shadow, just like their actions of the underdog; because the brainwashed fools embezzle the essence of the times, just like idiotic cheats, even the judge supports accomplices, just because they pay more.
The only fang of everyone's cowardice, closed in on themselves, because there is no way towards redemption. Does this current minute man need a missed chance or a rotten fate?! It often happens that the Lack that has fallen upon us is now disturbing everyone and terrifying. Because every lack is also a dangerous abyss, where anyone can enter involuntarily; Instead of healing wounds, counterarguments fall into an ever-deepening pit, opening its Charybdis gates like a fatal trap to build a bridge into the intentionally deafened nothingness.
Dec 7, 2025
Dec 7, 2025 at 1:27 AM UTC
It is as if random failures have now become a simple natural phenomenon; because no matter how much a stock market shark or business oligarch steals, cheats, or gambles for pleasure, the hellish petty frills of everyday life tie them up and don't let them go. The average person would try to stack their weathered, disintegrated, and embittered lives like Lego bricks into a mud castle, which would collapse sooner or later.
Celebrity countesses and posh party faces will not knead bread in the depths of mud pots, and at most will only pour bean soup from steel-colored pots for a selfie on one of the festive occasions. In the depths of the pitiful Nineveh voids nicknamed the permanent, handfuls of murmurs are heard by the lips that have become pottery, because the banks of the conscious Nothing are shaken by mournful sobs - even several times a day.
Sincere, giving kindnesses rarely make a pilgrimage to the less fortunate, since the privileged first carefully examine how much benefit can be theirs alone. In the tectonic folds of superficial melancholy faces, chains of prejudices and stereotypes gather, snarling; it is necessary to live in an incomprehensible inner world that has almost dried up into a moon, so that the inner personality can be sustained and effective.
The Soul is struggling with the absolute, definitively sharpened silence, the nature of its being, the failure of the given historical era, labeled as permanent, gathered in lumps, is increasingly difficult to endure and digest. In the museum of lives, a rusty decay still echoes reluctantly... Deceived emotions gradually find themselves homes, if only to the extent that they confuse truth with lies; it is difficult to bend over double majesties, because ambivalence surrounds its subjects.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 1:21 AM UTC
The petty intrigues of senseless forces - indeed - can be seen in action even now. Disguised troubles still survive everything and everyone. For how many are hanging around here, forming rights for the Whole, that you. a traitor is now the hallmark of the diligent profiteer, the unprofitable never reaches the goal in life. Even the accomplice is a coward among thieves. The haunting pursuit of our petty fears echoes in the confused dreams of our night visions... The filth of tomorrows seems to be woven through and through by an unconscious, vile instinct. Even eternal friendships have become occasional mementos. Why is it now necessary to stare at the blind and uncertain Future several times at once, which - in principle - is still to come?! The Soul perhaps suspects all the wrong paths within; Everyone is already grinding between home and work.
Silent crime scenes constantly accuse those who have done nothing; the collective sigh of fellow instincts is difficult to understand, especially since our petty gestures have become a muddle. While some just nestle within themselves, they cannot dilute their concentrated spiritual world - but necessarily, those who are truly important and worthy of love are even hidden in abundance.
The scheming Present has also come up with self-destructive questions of fate, with many, many fragments of questions like "what next?". Self-consuming, perfect slavery consigns its defenseless victims to the depths of the cell. Cruel guilts lurk and chew on the senseless, especially those who have no right to defend themselves. All dead-end secrets, so many idle passages have been straining each other every day for a long time now, that even those who slide up their ***** or crawl in the dust would have loved to stone each other.
And while future doubts are now being stripped from the poles of man in minutes, like layers of chitin, everyday life can no longer be solvable, confusing equations.
Dec 3, 2025
Dec 3, 2025 at 2:55 AM UTC
Today, we are a bit like Being, as if all personality identities were in disintegration; the Soul can only hold itself as long as it can remain close to humans.
The laughing laughter wrapped in sincerity, like the juicy fruit of the South, always leaks juice, and from the deepest part of curved mirrors, a different gaze flirts with us with wolfish eyes. Because now it is increasingly impossible to notice who is lying honestly and truly and who is telling simplified commonplace truths. Why do we now have to retreat like slugs to a locked house, instead of rowing on the crested, cherishing waves of ports and oceans towards another opportunity?!
It would be good to faithfully search for the centers of gravity of the memory moments that once lived better days, which can only be visited in the depths of the Soul. Most of the single-minded, melancholic gazes have long since secretly settled on the imaginary closing lines; the illusion of the soul explosions slowed down near the soundless melancholic surface, which is considered solid, still keeps humming the petty words of our hearts.
Because it is increasingly difficult to show the roots that have begun to crust in their full reality where character and property collide; even those who could still chant the decades that have passed are ashamed of themselves. The cheap successes of visceral window dressing would perhaps be better closed for good, until a new chapter begins. As if even the average person would be betrayed by their own human smell, in vain for all the creams and luxury perfumes; the triumph of the leap always remains behind them.
It would also be good to recalculate the mortal minutes that were proclaimed as happy eclipses, while only the clocks tick by ticking. The Gordian knots, believed to be eternal, would also have to be cut from the threads of the labyrinths.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 2:26 AM UTC
Existence is ruling me more and more harshly, with its wolf-laws; through the labyrinthine mazes of lacks, I would still try to preserve my solitude in envelope-silence. The mill of Livability is still sifting, grinding, while stubborn death, like a prisoner, unexpectedly greets each victim. I must walk on the sacred paths of uncertain swamps, if I want the illusion of completion to float before my mental eyes; the mountain peaks of decades no longer comfort me - but oppress me with their misery of peculiarities.
No earthly copy of my movements is ever visible, because I should hide among people, who sooner or later turn out to be traitors to themselves. - Out there, more and more vile people with a merchant faith are bustling and pushing, producing useful profit figures only for themselves. Among the predatory night noises, only so many thieves-magpies, disguised ravens can be silent companions.
My petty human-smelling mistakes, which have formed into conscious systems, perhaps belong to me just as much as a fly on flypaper; Being slowly melts away from the DNA jelly of the body. It would be good to preserve the immortal loves of the Universe in the cosmos-state of conscious weightlessness, like the dying comet-stars of the Soul, because now so many success and sensation-hungry merchants, fortune-hunters, trouble-making minute-human celebrity-influencers show themselves to be endless errors. It would be better to finally break away from the spiral blind tracks of unachievable commercial desires, even if still dispassionately on the threshold of the third millennium, about which no one can yet guess whether it can remain properly human-shaped?!
It is a blinding slander that now deliberately hides everything from the average person; there is no one to ask for advice or help, because everyone only hopes for profit and even more easily obtainable, tinkling Judas gold. There has been an increasing number of vile, two-faced, meaningless sermons spread by thieves. One cannot believe that they can measure up to humanity here today.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 1:37 AM UTC
Everyday utility bills, will contracts ready to wander, ready to be torn apart in public: so that's all that could be left of you, you vile, human-smelling Life?! Because - unfortunately in most cases -, without exception, most people forget to pay and redeem the necessary attorney's fees, which makes the notary in question just go headlong into solid walls again.
The magical blue suitcase remained in the ward for some reason, where it was regularly stolen from - what could have been considered a saleable asset. A juicy, disgusting fried chicken leg garnished with mayonnaise potato salad, grandma's beloved honey jerboa, which only she could understand. The top secret files of a secret period document, which still wanted to faithfully testify to historical times in a diary.
The violin keys fluttering on the yellowed Beethoven-like sheet music spoke of cryptic, real music... Once we had to go to a formalin-smelling fortune teller who - I think - in exchange for fruitful profit predicted what might await us on the donkey's doorstep of the 21st century, although only half, because when she reached us, it seemed as if she had already reduced the partial contribution offered to her initially;
"You too will end up as cursed ones!" They will see!" - his preaching-judging words sputtered from his lips. - Perhaps once in a hundred years the sacred holiday-solitude of the spleen-consciousness will pass through the supposedly solid bones of our skulls with a sparkling, crystal-clear light, because our consumed days are already living off of us somewhere.
In the welded shaft-cavity, the bloodless paperclip would still hold together the caesarean sections of the aborted Being, and not just the cracks; because the routine of everyday life is repeated again and again, with the petty tricks of mask-gestures. In the unnoticed ecstasy, the desire to wrestle with the conscious impossible, as a kind of still possible alternative, strains against the uncertain Present.
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 2:21 AM UTC