The more and more difficult and difficult to survive decades have already turned into clouds. Like pigeon guano on the windowsills, which cannot be picked up once and for all, or scraped off. Only one thing is certain here: if a curious bird, reluctant to stare - be it a raven, magpie, or tern - takes off with a light, almost airy movement between the far-seeing cotton-wool continents of the horizon, sooner or later it will look out for the more unfortunate and stupider human son and once and for all drops his stink bombs.

Because human life shrunk down to an ant-millimeter can be worth this much, while pigeons, ravens, and Tandori's favorite sparrows are also feathers clinging to the ground. - Surely the immortal happy ones are still hiding somewhere at some point, who fully enjoy the fruits of the Garden of Eden of Being, and they have no idea to ask anyone why the other is miserable, why he has degraded and lowered his own selfish standard of living and is therefore so grumpy?!

Scared - the thin Reality can hardly hold the considered formulas of dreams, ideas, instincts and desires anymore, from which it becomes consciously clear that each person still existed as a separate, eccentric-stubborn island on this mud-ball, and paid the price with interest for it, if he stayed true to himself because he became a Judas-traitor to others, then they could read the petty, small-scale judgment of his failure enough times chased, humiliated on his head.

Out there, in the urban festive whirlwind that has hibernated to ice, it's as if a constantly humming, buzzing beehive is singing: "Buy anything now, because it's worth paying for later!" - And the cat-and-mouse game of chance between each other goes on and on with petty, squealing pleasure, until - unfortunately, in most cases - the average person loses anyway. That is why game theory is much more a it is determined by blind luck, like anything else, and that in the crowded, posh casinos in Monte Carlo, you cannot see the sunlight, so that they can create a deliberate eternity, an inner stressing restlessness.

And while high-world, hysterical checkers-queens parade one after another on the red carpet in the whirlwind of their big evenings, where - as you know - only success, fame, lowly assertion, pushy intent are the latest trendy chic - they can hardly notice them in the alleys of street corners in cardboard box cities survivors, or that sooty-faced little angel who sells bouquets of flowers during shivering minuses!

In our moments, it is not yet the iron-heavy dream that has hit the homestead like this on the approach of the holiday, but rather a kind of destroyed, permanent shipwreck, nicknamed permanent disillusionment among the ruins of a worn-out, much-destroyed present. In the leaden night after midnight, a raven-black jaguar or a panther purrs as it stalks its prey, as if Life, the eternal director, as the great, fatal mangrove press, sooner or later grinds every created soul to its liking.

In the dim light of street lights, a lost five-minute-famous Celeb-face appears; with self-help advertising strategies and new like-hunts, because recognition can no longer be guaranteed otherwise, only with manipulable, lead-seeking tools like this that are splashed everywhere. The faces that have been very familiar for twenty or thirty years, yet unknown, are covered by some mysterious, charming frosting smile, which is both a lie and a lie, and remains false forever. It may seem that the constantly thinking mind can rarely create for itself a cultured home-shelter, secure library-ports.

The one-World, now rotting to the core, is experiencing an unorganized lack of space for an uncertain future. The waist of winter digs viscerally into human tissue with its frozen tiger claws, and no matter how much it wants to, it won't let go. A sense of cold and mixed loneliness has now moved into the cocoon of insomnia. The well of life is an ever darker pile-chasm; getting out of its labyrinthine spiral lines is an increasingly self-evident impossible undertaking.

The slapping lesson just got easier; as if only those who openly lied to themselves and made more and more small-scale bargain alliances of dubious value in order to live at a high-quality, elite level or to prosper! "Nowadays, no matter how much anyone can ask for a small number of people here, if they don't have enough money, they will die!"

Now the profane, festive silence set in, and like a compromising, false, word-breaking friend, he immediately blurted out all the small-minded secrets of others; out there, the ancient, well-rehearsed tactic of wallowing is maintained based on the predictable, petty principle of "it's good to give and receive", which involuntarily trickles down to a small side benefit not only for celebrities but also for sensitive celebrity faces.

It's as if they are deliberately stripping their cheap and salable souls, bribing them towards the uncertain Tomorrows. In the eyes of the beholder - if there are any still here on earth at all - how much is a couple of kind friendly words shoved in a mean way when it costs almost nothing just a bowl of bean soup?! Unwittingly, the frail person constantly categorizes and tries to think back to the holidays of his shipwrecked childhood, when perhaps it was still good to cling to the beard of playful curiosity, knowing that he could receive a real spiritual gift.

Unfortunately, this current century will also become increasingly sickly suspicious, where all kinds of dirt and filth accumulate involuntarily and it is not possible to clean up or fix what has already been damaged from the ground up for a long time. From there you can tell that nothing is going to work, that we immediately become worried about an unlikely friend invitation, about which we knew nothing until now. There can be neither a happy, self-deprecating ending, nor catharsis, only a brainwashed mass of deliberately deafened people, whom it would be better to console and forget forever.

They will stumble into another whirlwind New Year; who's drunk, who's afraid, or maybe quite sober, and again, beyond the usual symbolically puffed-up, fireworks, or firecracker slogans, there isn't and can't really be grasped at the tattered intentions of human sympathies!

Now we have to live more and more in the age of Caliban, where everyone deceives, cheats and robs everyone. The channels of existence close in front of our noses at an early age, while there is no one who does not fall halfway to the afterlife. Man, whether a wanderer or just an exhausted traveler, takes minutely into account the one-time limit points of his predictability, condemned to mortality.

It may be that there is no longer, nor can there be, a chance to definitively explore the innermost spaces of insight, which are hardly visible to the eye, because everywhere the superfluous appearance, the ******, manipulable interest prevails. Conscious self-destructive decay bordered on petty, childish folly; honey-glazed sugary words will soon lead to a lot of boiled bile, which tends to be accompanied by persistent nausea; out there, greedy, pitiful little worms with a penchant for fighting are robbing each other according to rules of the game that can be permanently rewritten, but can also be broken.

Now many petty Darius and Harpagon are counting their cursed treasures in heaps, and no one would ask the average person what troubles he has caused in this no man's land in the countryside?! Even the common man now carries corruption by the hand, like a weight-carrying ***-heaviness, as if deep inside he knows that dreams of luxury in paradise will never come to him. In an age where voluntary submission has become a trendy fashion, the frail man makes deals and breaks them. When locals?!

And they will be and remain the servants-mascots of eternal losers-losers who only dared to fantasize about a simpler, happier life, and have not yet intentionally sold themselves; Nowadays, there are more and more secondary side tracks for people who like to push themselves, where they can stream to their heart's content and pull the profit. In the end, the broken, often humiliated person will be a silent scream at the bottom of a lace bush...

Never learned to swim,
If I drove into freezing cold waters,
Would it set me free?
That icy cold grip could numb this pain,
Would instinct take over?
That icy cold rush could steal my breath,
Would I fight to survive—
Or set me free?