People now only take one step forward, on a rope without a net; they rarely pay attention to their precarious balance - in their calculated manipulative movements they still listen to the gears clicking in their brain, the pressing impulses of their steps, even the blocked calm. Perhaps they should practice the appearances of reality in their dreams, which are still tangible. With their prosthetic teeth grinding, they would rather greedily eat fried meat or fish fillets without bones.

People will probably never be as low as they are right now, and they will never be able to reach a certain middle-class standard, because from their meager salary they can only pay their debts forever, endlessly. - Their contemporaries are sighted colorblind; perhaps they don't even want to see and notice what the Present projects before their eyes with its telephoto lens. This is how they manufacture their buried excuses and carry them as guilt. Even the nothingness of everyday life is increasingly stared at with increasing fury by brainwashed, wild idiots.

Nameless snakes writhe under their feet, because it is a dethroning emptiness, and unconscious indifference would just as easily scratch out each other's eyes today, because it can do so, that all its misdeeds remain unpunished; the past useless years knock on stilts above their heads, because birth repeatedly counts down the meager life. They push the scenery of a bad conscience before their eyes, because they have to scaffold around the canvases of action and will with false words and promises. It would be good to neutralize the intended germs of evil every now and then!

In the stale, meaningless dialogue of stories, an uninvited guest-visitor still pops up from time to time, like a kind of eccentric omniscient; a fugitive who breaks the wheel of relationships, of deceitful feelings. Because there are always those who betray, deceive, or just leave you alone. Spiritual longing seems to be unable to secretly repair itself, to become its own selfish spiritual guide, and to find its way out of winding, crooked paths - at least once in a while - like spiral labyrinths; because the promised words, like unworthy targets shot back into beating hearts, still made people believe that something eternal and perhaps immortal, like the Universe or the sky.

If a guardian angel still appears from the quarantine-like Time, he has either turned into camphor in the blink of an eye or - because he wished it so - deserted; we are now in the dense ring of decades, as if our gestures of indifference, wanting to belittle our actions, were deliberately calcified. As if a local, location-specific observation, or biased attention, were enough, as if we wanted to find our way around with a GPS in the sea of ​​sincere feelings that we have alienated and appropriated.

The shortest path between two points has once again been eroded, destroyed due to the rewriting of building regulations, and since it is no longer possible to travel by bicycle or four-wheeled car, the number of hesitant, sloppy loitering is certainly increasing. One is stuck here again, speechless like sour grapes, hanging on a rope end that has already been deliberately cut in half...

An invisible tremor inoculated unnoticed into the nodes; it ***** up invisibly at once, surrounds, and does not let go of its unsuspecting victims with its octopus tentacles. The truth is known in the order of the World: No one can be innocent enough, because - as is well known - not only the wild will to live began with birth, but perhaps also the realization that we are dependent on ourselves. A spiral chain of unnoticed infectious diseases inoculated into the visceral certainty of the bones, which can also be caused by age-related changes.

Lack swirls like a vortex, because it has secretly stretched itself onto the polar surfaces of the skin; it would not be necessary for the fierce and fierce vicissitudes of everyday life to drag its shipwrecked people along unnoticed, to speak - often - because there is no one to do so. The petty axioms of hissing denials are organically enclosed within oneself, because one still believes that it is somewhat better to cope in finite solitude.

We dream of a single touch throughout a lifetime, which we could not receive in a million and one forms enough, neither from our mother nor from our beloved, it would perhaps have been better to cling to the manipulable promises of friendly handshakes, if we could have wanted something to finally happen. In the tunnels of the blood vessels, in airtight oxygen capsules, instincts and desires also travel in order, as in public transport.

Most people would now prefer clear clarity, common sense for themselves, not the preaching of false slogans that almost never get us anywhere. - The cheap appearance of lazy indifference should be eliminated sooner or later, because we have had enough of the offerings of puddles.

In our golden, dust-sized Existence-Time, we all travel like stowaways along blind tracks, walking our own soul-killing Odyssey; as if we already guessed in advance what our good mother gave birth to us for, struggling for life. Maybe then, even as half-groping blind children, it was good to believe to ourselves that there could be a purpose and value to the fact that we are still here, and that we want to be somewhere.

Like hidden shadows or sacred radiance, our secrets are either this way or that - but they will remain with us forever if we do not tell them to anyone; the comfort of fake smiles that intrude on a person may not really excite us anymore, since almost all of them are false, fake, or just tinsel. As if Reality, of which we are unconsciously part, like pieces of cells or microparticles, wanted to knock more and more frequently.

It would be nice to be filled with unearthly harmonies in the lap of the Universe in the hope of a fuller life; the peaks of rock-hearts have pierced the torn canvases of my soul a million times, and there was no one who could have promised to heal me. We have been stuck outside the gate of redeeming salvation for a long time, which was closed with seven padlocks. The soul, which has already received enough careless pain, nurtures cacti of solitudes alone, the memory preserves torn dreams.

Why do we constantly feel that our every move, our DNA instinct, and the physical blueprint of our genetics are full of doubt and hesitation, if we even dare to go through the stages of the life journeys we have begun, or walk in the sacred captivity of balmy sunsets on the beach, where the shore can only be filled with people with perfect bodies?! There is still a long way to go until we realize this, if only there were always someone standing by our side as a helping hand to show us the way through the swamp of confusion!

This present, gloomy, wretched Time rattles its iron keys; many seven-locked doors creak so that later they will finally close, because now even those who could once have been prophets or small-time heralds are sinking into the tower of silence. The materialistic spirit of the given era is driving more and more people into an unhappiness dubbed permanent. Because now there is only one law: to squeeze profit even from the poorest stratum.

The barriers have also been soaked in us, which we built primarily so that even those who once professed with loyalty: I love you, could not get to know us well. Your sleeping enemies are hovering around you, like the giggling hyena hordes, with whom you can no longer do anything, because they reappear again and again in the fabric of your life; Life, which does not wait to swim or frolic, sends you messages with reckless, lazy thrusts - but twists your full, barely attainable possibilities.

Everyone can only pretend to have this great hypocritical happiness, which has become the sole right and privilege of the minute-man on the outskirts of the tabloid media. The present is now increasingly vulture-like. It always gnaws at its prey bones and greasy slobbers at the expense of others. Hypocrites in robes increasingly submit to some difficult-to-understand rule, which others have imposed on their heads; after all, sluggish ignorance is perhaps still better than the weighty Sisyphusian knowledge.

We are also deceived by the curse of everyday life, by the sack of evil, from which penny-worth of good deeds rarely rattle or fall, and the truth grafted into honesty, which is spoken by mouths and lips but rarely understood, is an increasingly bitter, rotting fruit. Even reason is witnessing falsified eras, because the objective sources have all been lost or destroyed. Even the cold Reality is becoming more and more malleable, more flammable.

You constantly wander the path of angelic walks, as if you secretly suspect that a child's face is looking back at you from the crooked depths of mirrors, which seems to never age, yet you often think of it as an old man. The uncertain future is also an increasingly crippled ladder, because you lie to yourself when you think you can still fix or change anything.

The fever curve of your willful pride seems to be deliberately shot through in the morning by a stray arrow of conscious doubts; gurgling noises secretly terrify you, in case they might disturb you or harm you even more; the Present dissolves instantly, even if you are not willing to take care of it, apart from your skin that wants to peel, you still speak with broken Apocryphal signs, but only those who accept it completely and as a whole can understand it.

Halfway between swaying rows of walls, you are forced to stumble like the occasional drunkard, because you are afraid to know the one-essence; perhaps only the great Nirvana-nothing can await you with more complete loyalty, without giving itself away. Yet, in the rocky depths of your knowable soul, the eternal child who you have always been envelops itself in swirling silence! Memory and humility purr within you, perhaps only until you recognize the One-Beloved again, who will accompany you for a lifetime!

The Golden Horse of the Present cannot be collected by man these days; he would rather let his own selfish footprint, which could have at least testified to his having lived and existed here, be lost and lost in the silent Times. His dry soul is simultaneously squeezed by the bittersweet tears of sorrow that rise from the depths of his gut, which he has always shed for Someone, and never for himself.

He knows about himself: the freshly cut green blade of grass will sooner or later bury anyone, even if he is careful. Where have the cheap, petty plans of the day after tomorrow's scheming gone?!

Desire was a deliberately shortened vanity, just like the instinct instilled in biology, because life itself had become increasingly complicated, and the appearance of tolerance, which we wished to possess by right of birth, could hardly be endured, because it would be good to tattoo question marks into the window of the vile blind mind, so that there would be light in the brainwashed Gorgon heads.

The footprints of those leaving and those arriving - I fear - cannot even meet halfway; it seems as if man himself, as an idle observer, were constantly postponing the unexpected landing, which would still be left from his shallow lifestyle. Because the painted parody of the future, nicknamed the future, seemed to have long since nested itself in the mud of possible tomorrows!