Like a time bomb cogwheel, every nerve-string in your brain seems to tense up when Existence raises new barriers against you, you run into petty, petty, calculating rejections; through the tiny, almost insignificant gaps of everyday life that have become one, we still peek out curiously and vigilantly, hoping that some organization that is advertised as a charity will provide you with some kind of cheap, free charity. Existence is still - in vain you would deny it - hibernating unwaveringly and not noticing at all when? where? Who was wrong to rightfully acknowledge its crimes and offenses.

Another Disneyland will follow - it is true - here in Central Europe, this one too, a worse, more inferior, and therefore more sloppy version. And while digitally infected Trojan horses are being sent here and there in the broad digital sphere of interest, the average person – well, they can – only turn their heads, because ultramodern technologies are incomprehensible to them, and not that clear.

It almost hurts and at the same time humiliating that your own goals, desires, and plans, like usurping Tyrants, are simultaneously towering over your head, and you are constantly 100% hooked to the core because you cannot understand how things and connections could change even three hundred and sixty-five degrees per second?! – Summer also produces hibernated obituaries in this disgustingly musty-smelling air, like when pigs roll their one and a half pound, bloated bodies in the lap of swampy mud seas, just because they feel like it.

And while summer opening hours – in many places – can be as late as eleven o'clock, you can hardly find any saving, cooling shade in the forest of immense concrete slab cages.

A moonlit night ponders on musty, blue cobblestones; now not even Zhuang Xi and even a night woven with ten thousand cobwebs of solitude can console me, since the yellowish cheese moon has long since turned every stray, orphaned shadow brown. I stare at the ceiling melancholy, idly in the balmy summer night, while the conscious Lack surrounds me a little frighteningly, like a creeping, hiding ivy.

On endless roads, like a wandering wanderer, with my restless restlessness, I must set out, so that like Kerouac I may find the pitiful, monotonous essence of my visceral life, if it still remains. Peeling wounds guard my soul, unwavering, like some watchful herald, or rather a guard, so that I may never forget who I once was.

My instincts and feelings, like offended, petty goblins, are chasing me like genies, inconsolable, until they carry me far away. I long for peace, harmony, a happiness that I can find, which I may never be able to achieve, since there will always be lurking dragons, evil, vile wizards, who with petty, petty pleasures trap me, and hinder my eternally childlike existence. Four-legged like a crab, occasionally looking back, with hands in pockets, the uncertain Present often justly plunders me, like a robber, its unsuspecting crime.

Being may seem like a dizzy, melancholy game, but perhaps it never was. As if little by little all good, noble intentions were dying, fading away in me; I am bribed by the superficial, meaningless, superstitious flirting eye game with which an angel honors me. All the states of plans and promises can fall into an endless vortex if one is only able to feel and see with one's heart: the planned dreams are now more likely to be awaited by Never Island, the weight of graves is awaited by moss that has been soaked in, smelling of mold!

Your soul descends into the ancient, subconscious cave depths if you truly, sincerely want to know yourself. Where there is no longer any calculating, manipulative evil, ambiguous promise phrases, or fabulous illusions of appearance, only the rock-hard, almost visceral absolute Reality. Not even the allure of flirtatious smiles that want to flirt with you can take away your life-weary skeptical mood, there is no disgusting nauseating taste of evening tales.

There is no honeyed, glazed flattering voice of eternal immortal loves, because truthful holy words are faithful to themselves and to you, and mean stripped-down simplicity. It would be good to have a protective, savior Angel, who would stand in front of the door of your life with a sword in a kind and direct way, and would protect your eternal childish self within you, and would open the tiny key to your secrets only to those with truer hearts; who would tell you, urging patience to your restlessness, what is the only secret of a more real life.

– They will embrace you like the dormant ivy vine, with their promises of more beautiful, more livable things, which would lead you back into the cold and often monotonous prison walls of reality. On the misplaced paths of your mood, you can only allow the Kind One to follow you, sniffing like an adorable little animal; even cat-like early morning absences cannot hold you back completely if you want your life to finally get back on track. Mutuality or continuity?! When which?!

You would ask and secretly it happens pitifully that you don't even notice and are forced to interrogate yourself. Will the small, flat gaps between people, social, emotional, and so on, be bridged, or will the prairie and asphalt jungle ocean collapse into a salty, uninhabited sandy desert?!

Be very careful, because from your birth you can be only one of you at the gate of the Universe, where beating hearts confess their immortal oath as a sacred vow. Because you are a speck of dust in the vision-illusion of mortality and you would do better if you now mentally go through every minute of your pitiful, petty life, because maybe it will be too late when the Wheel of Fate comes to you. You would say: it would be better to finally bury every single sorrow of 40 annoying, sly years, every single spiritual wound that can be challenged, refuted - yet the memory that ponders the past increasingly prompts you to speak demandingly.

Your restless, restless Ulyssesian confusion, in the catatonies of initial apparent madness, your restless buzzing soul, that you. Those on whom I could once count and upon whom you could build your shaky, suspicious trust are no longer with you. Even today, you would rather live with the solidified point-candles of your memory than forget where you came from and where you went back then, when you could believe that man was noble and good.

You deliberately did not play a bold gamble, wanting to flirt with your fate; but what sense could there have been, when now the reward of fine words, promises and truths is possessed by usurping geneviers as a kind of intermediate laurel?! The yew-flower wings of your dreams will slowly fall into the sweet-sad darkness of oblivion if you do not take care to palliate and maintain your Alzheimer's brain with memory exercises.

– The pressure already gathered in your brain coils in many forms, like a network of secret arteries, gathers the instincts and methods of action for you, you just need to learn to listen to the rumbling voice of your inner echoes in a worthy way!

Unknown, uncertain tomorrows stomp over my head like ghosts or goblins awakened from their sleep. I often wonder: have I actually changed so much that everyone has slowly disappeared from my side, or have they just left me alone, like half-witted disabled people, or Forest Gumps who have failed, or is it the grotesque, nonsense World with which I have come to understand myself less and less?!

My eternally childish self of adolescence often competed not only with speeding cloud continents, but also with the instincts of the Universe, which lurk in the depths of my eyes, unnoticed by the conscious; vanished card houses, dream ships that have run out. And while the great Wheel of Time, which has begun to rust, is constantly grinding the spinning blind luck, like hasty fugitives fleeing from man's happy and peaceful eras.

Whom Fate has dragged so stepmotherly after the ornate, posh daridos of prom-goers, although his specific plans had a meaning and purpose, today, as an outcast, he tries to thrive on the surface of the earth with less success. Why, that all remaining human intentions are already so cursed?! I would like to faithfully investigate whether the whole thing can have any meaning at all in this turbulent anthill World, and that even once a man could not have lived here in vain, - perhaps - this is now just a piece of crap, a foolish dream, nothing more, and so our useless, burdened decades are also turning to dust.

- All bargains and laws are in vain: The World and the weak little nobodies in it never change, because it is impossible to take a worthy guarantee for its promise and word. I will bequeath my sick, tachycardiac heart-stump, like a human, traveling Robinson Crusoe, to an urn: see, I am dust and ashes!

No matter how much he tried to free himself, - he rather tolerated his slavery, he did not stand it, he did not even beat himself up with superior, scheming powers for it - perhaps he really does not want to be freed for good; he will be a shackled slave for his entire life. No matter how much he wanted to be free, the coronary veins wrapped around his sick, yet sensitive, beating heart like a murderous hog, no matter how much he tried to free himself; the paramedic was repeatedly delayed for thirty quarrelsome minutes.

No matter how much he tried to free himself, his One-Beloved preferred the diminishing goods of materialism; the temporary luxury lifestyle - no matter how much he tried to cooperate with logically constructed reasons - this ragged life was too much for a true Angelic miracle. In vain he tried to free himself from the underworld depths of placenta pits, he felt and knew: something was not and could not be right in this big World, where the calculating strong always crushes the weak, stricken with defenseless orphanhood.

In vain he tried to free himself from the majestic, prestigious university, because of his excessive education and humanistic attitude, he was advised against it, just so that he would not have to get a diploma cuma sum laude. In vain he tried to get a job in the painful interviews that increased hemorrhoidal spasms, he could hardly get a paid job.

No matter how much he tried to free himself with human-smelling, melodious handshakes and convincing promises, he was immediately ******* in a knot, like the convicts suffering from innocence, no matter how much he tried to finally escape this unfair, vile, compromising earthly existence, the secret Morse echo effect symbolizing the connection was forever cut off halfway between the railway tracks!

My friend, you better realize: if you want real gems, just look into the superstitious eyes of your Beloved, shining like real pearls, to find the eternal one-answers in the Morse code of immortal love and the Universe. Striding on the traces of Being, defying many millions of obstacles - perhaps -, only the two of you are a unified whole, because you constantly need to gain strength in confidence and blind luck-hope that wants to be renewed.

Your little people, ordinary things are not as clear as you think; some sufficiently clumsy, gibberish word-plurality has been welded together from the clumsy coordinates of repetitive, boringly repeated sets of ideas; why can't the endless night shift combined with reasoning lead anywhere?! - It seems that our constantly busy mind is already grinding away at the often uncontrollable fateful events without them. Why do you always feel that thinking rationally and logically is just vain self-deception?!

Losing your patience, giving up your ant-like diligence in a manipulable and bargain-bound way, you can increasingly recognize yourself in the series of superficial, slimy exhibitionist jokes that the infected tabloid media throws at you with understanding patience every second.

My friend! Unfortunately, be careful! We have become damaged, amputated savages, and only half-human wrecks, who have been deceived a lot, and I believe have been led astray in their gullibility. Your vulnerable heart can no longer ache only in a separate purple petal-shell, if you ask it nicely not to bleed in its aching pain. - The romantic, happier idyll, the illusion-appearance, has become a disguised fugitive. Bosch could not have painted it as a more inspired hellish, underworldly vision!