The rusty lock on each heart-petal swung unusually, as if everyone now carried several keys, digital padlocks, with them on purpose, because they can never give the vile current of unpredictable fate what it deserves. They prove unable to swallow and spit out compromising, redeemable dreams and desires. Life only passes by, almost endlessly, because perhaps we all lived and existed a little with cowardice. A discarded, neglected fragment of memory drifts by in vain, the spoken "I love you!" that led to the fatal breakup before the wedding.

No one can figure it out, perhaps they haven't wanted to for a long time, what could have gone wrong in a sacred relationship that was nicknamed lasting, spiced with everything, promising immortality?! There have always been and will always be answers, the simple excess weight of forced steps keeps pulling back its leaden limbs.

After all, it is impossible to stoop to the point of questioning the now happy wife, who gave birth to three children at once, with an open judge-prosecutor confession, as if she could have discharged her social obligation at the same time. There is no need to wait for mousetrap confessions; the stoic indifference builds a mandatory defensive wall out of compromises, with which everyone tries to keep everyone away from themselves first and foremost, so that no one can be treated with dignity even by chance. to question.

There is nothing to take back from the sluggish yield of compromises that seek to belittle, nor to repent with sincerity. Because everyone is now a coward and doubly unfaithful in one person. Even the one who once truly loved takes on the yoke of vulnerability!

Unfortunately, faces are no longer as helpful and empathetic as they once were; they have become distorted, crusted over with the grotesqueries of everyday petty exhibitionist nonsense of Existence. Once again, we are at the point where we are faced with the question of who has how much, and who can chop and mow down how much. Unexpected worms and beetles emerge in connection with each human soul, which is also a bit sociopathic, because we always have to bargain with our drunken, weeping self.

A deep feeling of nausea and disgust, suppressed in the fever of acquaintance, prevails, and because the relationship with every cozy Mediterranean-style family is a bit fragile, mainly because of the afternoon siesta, dolce vita. Unfortunately, the ancestral bird of unhappiness is always a blood-******* leech, a bat, while in the dreams of the romantic, unattainable, yellow, *****-smelling cuckoo's eggs; because often, inevitably, people stumble upon small, seemingly indestructible cockroaches and beasts in everyday life, whom it would be better to avoid and not keep in mind.

A surprising number of people have been forced to let go of the years of commies that were ordered to be quiet. We now carry within us our intentional carnivorous trap, from which we cannot escape; no one can be nobler or better than anyone else, only a prey animal that can be hunted down, crippled by work, and eviscerated; the blind guides of Existence-fate are no longer the donkey-steps, - but much more manipulative protections, pitiful commodity interests, which are placed in give-and-take positions, packed, and put here and there. It is necessary to beware step by step these days, so that we can still pay the quota fee with dignity and pomp for our eternal childish credulity.

Just as eating is the test of pudding, we can't really do anything with our deliberately inward-flowing, draughty tears. Our residual, mushy, pathetic life is divided into three hundred and sixty-five tiny particles not only by Time or the calendar - but every day has that cheesy, almost shameful story to the core, according to which: we should adjust better to our alternate endings. Love ready to unfold would draw in vain increased comfort if there were no roots, seeds-germs left from which the whole emotion would sprout; why does the delicious roasted coffee, which we brew in the dim light of dawn, also have the smell of burnt *****?!

Because we must naturally inhabit the accumulations of lasting annoyances, so that later they can't say about us: "Well! This was also that kind of person!" As if the spiritual-physical connection had already - in many cases - finally come to an end, i.e. a person must always compromise with himself first and foremost, and bargain at the same time.

He often stumbles or gets lost in flooded jars if he is not paying enough attention, and because sooner or later the body also stretches itself towards the horizon of Nothing. The goals and planned ideas seem to testify to conscious helplessness; why should the disillusionment nicknamed permanent be skinned when there is still usable emotion there?! A state of voluntary death also outlines the order of the living, where they can go. From inside, the World already seems like a torn Band-Aid.

The spiraling snakes would now like to devour the entire World; nuclear fission may increase the actual value of mortalities in the eyes of "some" - of course as unnecessary collateral losses -, a white condensation trail inevitably passes over a person's head, left by some luxury private plane while reaching Earth orbit. The rule of the constantly suspicious sentries that remain open still returns now and then.

At the last moment, perhaps after five hundred years, the Cyclops-brained titans enriched with testosterone, who have deliberately forgotten the proper manners, the conditions of behavioral codes, the eloquent ins and outs of compliments, will also become extinct; anniversary rings are driven through broken or white diamond wedding rings, because fewer and fewer of them can only truly experience the feelings of the Universe, which alone reside unnoticed in the depths of beating hearts.

They grow respectable beer bellies not only It's pounding, but it's quite a lot, gentlemen Pál Pató, and while the great gentleman's party-dario, bolsoly-babysitter is going on, it's as if everyone is no longer able to bear the enriched, concentrated half-hearted appearance-happiness.

- The city of Nineveh, which has long surrendered to partying, is thus becoming an increasingly sinkable Atlantis, a tiny island of nowhere, which at any moment - if they're not careful - can be swept away by the moving Danube. It would be better to head straight in the opposite, more vulnerable directions, because now everyone is considered a bit of a good actor in fair-boy comedies; what is failure and success at the same time was actually a lesson and a make-up exam! One day - in any case - he will be forced to take off his mask and become a shameless clown!

In newer, modern-digital ages - it may seem more and more so - brainwashed thoughts are being driven into the wall, and they are being expelled like snot, because the hated counter-argument can also splash back at any time if one is not careful. In newer modern ages, the persistently nauseating flattery can rather give birth to massive ***** than to chemically pure *******, massively praising the law-makers. The given era regularly snaps the ant-men, like an unwanted cigarette ****, saying; they will be just fine - even among themselves -, they will be an ashtray.

Because the newest digital ages, like strings, bind and weave through the lives of simple, melancholy average people, like some everyday, negligible little package, not to fall apart, because the rhythmic intoxication of croaking frogs is clearly audible. Because - I fear - even sincere confidences may have less and less room among merely conscious, unsettled cell-molecules.

- A person would become a collapsed block if he constantly cried on the secret channels of tabloid media about who managed to successfully **** how much? How did he gain weight, who earned more? Maybe sometimes it is better to be consciously present and permanent loneliness trapped within four walls, not disturbed by a smartphone, smart TV, or laptop.

What is the better solution: social loneliness next to someone whose body and mind can still tolerate it, or to consciously chase away and exclude everything and everyone from yourself?! Many useless, yet essential, questions to be decided. In the flight of a kite, one should still catch a few more bold moves before the big leap into the phlegmatic infinity.

I should not be the only link, the eccentric link, between attractions and deliberate repulsions. I should not be a main character-accomplice, just a simple supporting character-extra, who can be dragged here and there but will not let go, because he tries to live according to his own laws and prosper as long as he can. As an obedient rebel, the trumpeting, hysterical archangels of the Future often sound the alarm above my head.

- I have already changed my course quite often out of necessity, because the World would have expected this of me, even though the "some" knew well that it would be much more difficult for me to balance alone on my lame, club-like legs on the edge of the donkey ladder of Existence. In the fearful cosmic, arranged bends of the road, there can no longer be anyone left who would extend a helping hand as a sign of help, saying; You lived as a human, so we will treat you as such.

Because often I no longer know what the invisible Fate is planning for me, who was a simple mortal in this mud bowl all my life. My eyes would still drink in - if they could - the truthful foam crowns of exiled, foamy seas, where man could finally find redeemed harmony and peace. Virtual silences hardly guard my steps; as if digital sentries were standing watch everywhere. Moving target-human blue It is still unbelievable that they know anything about the personality of individuals.

From sight to blindness, not only the base, vile suspicion against the long-preserved Universal instincts grows in me, but also the haunting vision-image of the One-Beloved has come in and out in the wandering ghost-hour; because my unfulfilled desires are also constantly drowned by the wedding of uncomprehended dreams. The vain camp of self-willed people would increasingly tighten my throat like executioner's ropes. But don't be mistaken, I will catch myself one day and hide from here into the Underworld!

Your outgrown shadow still follows you faithfully, with due silence; you still stand hesitantly, putting one foot after the other, pondering over the paraphernalia of your wasteful, shipwrecked life, because the ethereal telephone voice has frozen into a silence; the mill wheels of Time are slowly grinding you down, just like anyone else who was not lazy to scrape up some chestnuts for himself first.

Between stifled reproaches, you still excuse yourself with your childish naivety, you. what haven't you done for this, or for that vile, nothing promise. Confrontation is in many cases unavoidable; not only in the showcase of exhibitionist superficiality - but rather in the depths of spiritual immersion, because it reflects the grotesque-nonsense Present.

The unspoken truth grows inside you, consumed, which you deliberately keep to yourself so that you won't be fired or advised to leave one day. - Inside, it would have been better if you had lined yourself with patience, so that you could have faced the petty weaknesses of others more boldly. You are standing in front of gates locked with a hammer-heavy key, but you have already passed forty years, and you can no longer turn back at will to change what you thought could be changed; because you tremble inside like overstretched strings, and you are rather just naively and childishly ashamed of yourself, you cannot protest, since the permanent, corrosive dark river of bitterness flows through your overworked veins.

And no matter how firmly you stand on the foundations of your selfish protest that you believed to be stable, you remain alone, so that you don't have to deny yourself endlessly again!

The irresolvable contradiction, in whose subconscious formula this current absurd-impossible World is immersed, first it turns into non-existence, then it organically emerges into the stagnant Nothingness. The ostrich-faithful gangs of yampecs, like the circus associations of the self-deceivers, seem to even play together a little in the manner of accomplices in the intercontinental businesses of gamblers - because a restless, wandering Soul has long since become a cat and has been tempting the son of man, because there is no partiality, no special difference in a prolonged, incessant Sisyphusian fall. It feels the numbing cracks of the rotting decompositions, while those who remain on the surface are constantly eviscerating the last pennies and silver coins from the pockets of the simpler, working average; Even pitifully degrading bureaucratic wisdom cannot be quite adequate these days: dignity and existence exclude each other just as feudal lords exclude a compromising servant.

Free-thinking is not at all chic these days, they are quite calmly content with merely the illusion of truth as long as possible. Now imported idolatry is becoming more and more popular again, but very much so. Because in the guaranteed transitional age, no one and nothing can be themselves, or the same as they were as long as the laws of humanism were observed, the message of conscious blind indifference seems to have been deliberately transplanted into another blind world.

Like startled fish embryos, apocryphal passwords glide, wrinkles write the warning message on the secret prison walls of faces: "Pay attention, and rather hide in hiding!" - Every circle must organically close at some point. The wasted seasons are no longer waiting for a silver star ready to wander. It's time to ventilate the soul-crushing stuffiness that is welling up in man!

Every spiritual wound is filled with little dawning cracks. It seems that actions and consequences no longer have a beginning or an end; how and how can they be connected to the Respite Times?! As if the questions you have decided or just wanted to ask could simply be thrown into a gaping abyss with a final will. A drowning need would drive one person after another to seek not only the light-blooded joys of being, but also the lawful security of the Soul, because even newborn words cannot be licked up by the mother tongue. The ebb and flow of the tides regularly leave their footprints here in the solidified whirlpools of Existence, intended as testimony.

More and more people would ask inquiringly:
"How is it possible that a person is homeless even in his beating heart, when he has a Beloved who cherishes him like an angel and comforts him?!" - There is no answer, or perhaps there was none. The cross-section of the faces has always been scratched by the retained pearls.

As if everything grows back behind those who have crossed the green border without return. Man gets further and further from himself, yet inside he goes deeper and deeper, to find what he has always been looking for in the Odyssey of knowledge; for he is both a prisoner and a sucker, who has let himself be consciously exploited, in every case it is necessary to defy misunderstandings, the cowardly feeling capitulates. A stifled reproach - that is not much - and the whole World is ready to sweep the many sins, offenses, and filth under the rug.

Somewhere, it seems as if the hidden, almost Apocryphal-smelling locks of Life are starting to open again; hunger and greedy thirst are following in its wake. The human shadows, like walnut kernels, carefully peel the rarely revealed one-essence from the slave back, as if everyone is waiting for the deliberate fall of their unsuspecting victims. Like tiger claws, the scornful sins of rejections and unworthy attitudes bite a person one after another, with which he can hardly do anything.

Because the World would crush everyone sympathetically a little, if it did not watch in readiness forever, as if a buzzing ant swarm penetrated the networks of blood vessels unnoticed. Because sooner or later, the mere Soul also rebels against its servant, the gaping of its instincts becomes arrhythmic. Even now, in a dazed stupor, this city with the smell of Nineveh slumbers like a drunken beast, which - it may seem - denies itself a little in exchange for petty, flattering benefits at every age, its compromising actions come face to face with man, and everything reveals how much easier it would have been to act differently, in a different way.

- In the grimace-games of dimples, the age histories of wrinkles get stuck halfway, which tell of shipwrecked childhoods... Something still rings better in a holey bag, and something just rings like a sound; making a big deal has become fashionable, just like unadorned, provocative ******, so that the number of viewers always brings the daily quota profit, the grass of innocence, like some unknown marijuana derivative, always rots. It may seem impossible to walk the peaks of silence that have become songless.

Among the brainwashed, cooing roasted pigeons, in the silence condemned to silence, I will rather be a walking Jonah, who lives comfortably in the stomach of a giant whale, since Socrates' admonitions seem to have been wasted long ago these days, because the whims of great, unknown scales of burdens must not only be borne, but also known to be carried. Because the vulnerable human soul is both a low point and the bottom of the sea! Let anyone say anything.

In the mud of the sea, it would often be better to wallow vilely like a pig, perhaps even to humble myself a little, that they did not shut up my sharp mouth, with which I complained not only to knowledge, but also to reason - but what use is it to the **** of human wrecks, who constantly damage, break, crush, or make their own by plundering.

Sooner or later, I will make a soul-break in my inner Self, where no one can follow me faithfully; because it would have been good to hide a little in a cowardly way back into my snail shell, where no one disturbs me, and from there, hiding, to observe and contemplate the wretched state of our affairs. Perhaps no one has yet thought about what a real thing it is when spiral circles close for good above a person's busy head, and not a single, orphaned loophole can remain, which would show new paths with its compass, I am preparing to languish in the depths of my vulnerable cells for another thousand years. I will keep the personal experience of "thinking more" to myself.

From flowing rivers of light, you will become a comet-star left alone, who has deliberately deviated from its now predictable orbit around the earth and, true to itself, wanders in the galaxies of infinite cosmos, because it is driven by some unknown-familiar homesickness-Odyssey.

You will sooner or later only take off the Enkidu-shroud of your body before your calculated mortality, as you yourself know that even a simple man sets off on his own towards the other shores of the underworld, no one can accompany him. Your restless, self-defeating Soul wanders on the paths of the deceived; it would be good for you to find your own depth and height inside. Because be careful!

This current mud-world offers only superficial, old, tinsel-like brilliance, nothing else, with which the greedy loyalty-chambers of beating hearts can never be filled, because a growing army of ghosts of doubts is already raging and besieging it. Outside, they can understand less and less that the Darius-treasures they have acquired are only the nails of Golgotha ​​for a coffin, and the boundary line considered honesty, from which there is no turning back, is far away.

Take good care of yourself, Man, as you can know and feel; the beast of hesitations, suspicions, the underdog, the belittling one, is only watching you, watching, suspecting, while it sneaks unnoticed into your troubled nerves and tears apart your handful of self-esteem. It would be good to believe for sure that somewhere in the holy gate of the All, besides your life, which you believe to be wasted, Someone is waiting for you. It would be nice if that crazy mechanic would put a stop to his restless atomic bomb impulses in his buzzing, cogwheel brain.

And although you have long been unable to bear the shackles of your meaningless, wordless silence, your intermediate silence, you must decide within yourself to finally forgive your stubborn, childish selfishness!

It would be so good - just for a few moments - to wrap myself around the shell-solitude, which at the same time provides a mild consolation. Perhaps there would be less hypertensive pressure in the cages of my chest, which urges its infractuent volcanic eruptions. It would be good - at least just once - to see the One-Beloved building a sandcastle on the beach with the children.

One should puppeteer into the silence of the inner Soul, whatever acquaintances or disguised friends say, so that the primordial vibration, which is at once related to and supportive of the Universe, can still maintain itself. An eternally thirsty, wounded desert-number would still say what I should hold back from time to time; "some" are chasing their fleeing dreams, while they are once again engaging in increasingly shallow, two-faced bargains. Nowadays, a person would do better not to open their beating heart to just anyone, and rather remain deliberately inaccessible, because the innermost dissolution can only truly happen if, squeezed out of Space and Time, the soul sheds its last, visceral earthly covering and recognizes its inner nature.

It would be nice if a few caring helping hands could find owners for the objects that have become like dogs crouching in the doorways of downtown sikátor. Signs are scratched under the pores of the skin by the holy longings of loves believed to be immortal, the temporary intoxication-addictions of unearthly and cosmic floating between kisses, in which one would have to dissolve and be redeemed at the same time, so that a person can still feel after 40 that he has not been squeezed out. from the secret weddings of the spiral circles, and that he is not totally alone.

In my vigils beyond dreams, the memories of happier idylls that have happened still accompany me honestly and faithfully.

An unstoppable ancient cyclone should hold man's dreams accountable, an eternal flame if the soul, already restless to the core, wanted to flicker; perhaps no one and nothing has time to wait with dignity, and await the order of the final tests. The Janus shadow of sleeping jellyfish creeps through our rusty coils, when man can no longer possess the ability to make his active shrinking, hazelnut-brain remember - afraid - perhaps it will be swallowed up by the insidious vibration-wave of self-destructive waves.

Spread fingers can no longer, tremblingly, embrace the loyalty of the Universe, to which they once swore with the word of the heart according to the laws of mortals. The small, frayed erosion of the body has been lurking helplessly for thirty or so years and does not ask, it only acts. Behind the person's back, old love-intoxications, eternal friendships guarded with fear, when everything seemed crystal clear and perhaps even simpler than it does now, still glow like a fading ember; the continuously drifting Time simultaneously wears, carves, shapes and if the person foolishly does not pay attention at all, what could never have been born is destroyed, that the attractive ara - at that time - did not want a sweetly babbling baby because of her bikini line.

As a mortal - even so -, he has cheated himself a lot, because he has been constantly sobered by the fierce series of judgment days; if necessary, if not for the last time, the merciless, brutal whip of Reality can strike him at any time. A restless, storm-beaten soul cannot rest in peace and quiet; It must dismantle itself, as a supposedly solid cell-molecule, which is being squeezed with increasingly ruthless executioner-like rigidity by the fetters of the body's diseases.

Amidst created worries, troubles and troubles, as if I were falling into a gaping abyss, half-balancing on the edge of animals, hyena-scavengers, like a shaky-legged, slightly hesitant, underestimated tightrope walker, - I can deliberately hold on or not in the draft of depravity. In the purgatory of an endless rail, as if I were one of those Bosch could have painted in his lifetime; a gathering of hell-shaped soul-shadow visions ready to rage.

It would be nice to hide back at least sometimes in some strange, sprawling Hawaiian wilderness, where crystal-clear, raw-visceral emotions can also manifest themselves more emphatically, more faithfully to themselves. A middle-aged rose withers and withers in the filth of big cities, because there was no one left to console her instead of her selfish strawman-peddler husband; because even hook-nosed prophets fall for whales, after devouring even the smallest tadpole embryos.

Forever chained as mere passengers in spiral circles, because that is how people are now, intentionally tied to the work methods of unbearable, unfulfillable working hours, petty-gallant deadlines. Because now it seems that washerwomen and hostess models are once again selling their commodity love for tinkling silver coins, until another incomprehensible, twisted property division lawsuit comes; "Daddy and Mommy really love you children! You just know that Mommy and Daddy can't stand each other anymore!"

They would rather drown each other in a spoonful of water, if they could do that!" - Thus, the slow, conscious disillusionment can still remain. Among the calculated, manipulative genres of attempts and cheap escapes, there is certainly no one left who would actually understand their job and act as their heart commands?! - A casual party queen or a diva imitating luxury is handing out slaps with stamps stuck on guest masks.

I must fall alone on the harmful, wretched waste of everyday life, like a constantly shrinking, bloated, bloated dwarf; because not only the petty, predictable pair of opposites of goodness and evil has become a mysterious jungle - but the fist of bribery is hitting me in the head, since the star of the Universe that promises peace may not even be reachable. Like a shipwrecked ship, the petal-soul is constantly orphaned in it, which once wanted to trust in the One.

A flood of disastrous sins will trample me to the ground if I am not careful. Human-bloods struggling for ends are screaming and shouting around me, tearing apart the secret chalice of selfless helping intentions to their heart's content, dragon-angry crowds-herds are drunkenly going to each other's laps, or are fighting. Who is in the mood for what?! The eternal child, always curious and ready to play, who I cannot forget and would never intend to let go, is still bent over in me, still sheepish.

Is it necessary to crumble at the table of vigils, like millstones in the night burdened with nightmares?! I listen in silence to the beaks with iron hooks that cut life, in the mouths of half-darkness they were still forced to snap like cutting scissors; let the moonscape-loneliness be petty, let it be selfish, since they were at once primitive, unbridled restless wanderers, whom Zhivágoy winds, Jericho trumpets have torn, flayed, and whined enough.

Even a believer in rainbow-foamy promises, I can no longer be completely happy. On the thin, rabbit-tail-sized border of a passing minute and eternity, it would be good for the sick, arrhythmic heart to know and feel when the judgment of mortality is preparing for its last supper, the one-Someone might still know here on this earth!

Tamable wolves are raging outside like a mob of people; a storm-hurricane roars like this when the immense horde-mass starts. A storm of art - not so much anymore - so that only a few on-duty Celeb-stars can become really big altar-jerking *******, whom the next generation of cyber-*** will look up to as worthy role models. Beauty contest, Anna-ball, but for what?! The good-sounding promise-speech flows from a jug, so that an employed model-presenter can always do well, since he hardly knows anything else.

Because "some" have to be barefoot to march even the length of a street towards success and a certain dubious fame. The exhibitionist overheatedness of voluntary, but still publicly humiliating, naked undressings is necessary so that a tabloid channel that is already doomed to die can still produce the sufficient number of viewers. Because every futile existence here is now torn in two and the simple man, tearing his hair out, can no longer decide what would be better?

To go or to stay in this wasteland doomed to Nirvana?! Among the fluffy roots that were already intended, that which could not even be born yet. The introverted consciousness that does not lie to itself cannot be a virtue now, but rather a conscious mistake. It would be good if superficial faces would not only suggest manipulable duplicity - but would redeem reality with a little sincerity and the pearly waters of tears. Why do we now have to to listen to what and how the wolf pack of the troubled city night is howling, completely out of its senses?!

Man goes through his existence walking on the edge of nothingness, while his bones are cracking viscerally; his humiliation from slave to slave is now constantly ripening, since he has long been the petty plaything of worms and maggots. Now he would rather practice walking in place a little more stubbornly, the tactics of the guest-passenger, stripped to the bone, are straining against each other, a writhing swarm of beetles is stopping his running, because a rubbing interest would decimate, lick the big whole, from which the average person certainly gets less.

Belittled, low-lying ants fight in a noisy concert quite often, because whoever begs for a warning, calls for help or hopes is now a suspect element; This current vile Age plants dust-scattering arguments in the ranks of corruptible souls, because everything and everyone is accompanied by the fever of possession for a lifetime, the depths of the underworldly filth often disgust even those who try to tolerate the filth.

In tendered dog nests, they would tender the juicy marrow bone, which the average person can never receive, and cannot win, as some kind of deserved, simplified honorarium, or pleasing compensation, rootlessly, to the detriment of life and other accounts, and a few hearty slaps are due to those who speak up and humble themselves for remaining European and human.

And while the canings are increasing in number, they immediately ******* the homeless who are begging and begging, they have to struggle sleeplessly, like a miserable *****, with the uncertain hurricane tide raging to the point of unknown, with storks' nests, not just a whistling nickel samovar that will last another hundred years - but a century of nuclear mushroom clouds!

Happiness and perhaps even the joy we thought was certain can only blink in isolation, because nowadays everything is superficial, manipulative, can increasingly deceive, can intentionally deceive and even deceive, a plastic, unpredictable tachycardia infarction can trigger alarm signals. Nowadays, almost everything is heralding the little kingdoms of ambitious people: everyone would like to seize treasures, deals, or even unstable, fleeting reputations for themselves.

Perhaps it would be better to palliate the compromised, sufficiently stubborn counterargument, unbaked slanderous sermons, unfortunately, it is increasingly easier to plant them in souls, where there are already enough weeds growing, because everyone only dares to scratch the truer, more secret depths of existence, because they do not dare to go against the truth, honesty at all.

A few well-sounding awards, false-lying congratulations, merits would flatter the inner self - if only they could -, but a handful of the pure chemical accumulates in the human being, to cleanse the burdens of petty sins like the waters of Lethe. Halfway between the daridos of blind slanders and half-truths, rust eats away at the counterarguments that are not lazy to think; the little worm from Alamus keeps gnawing away not only inside, but also in the outside world; because the wild crowd of jerks and jerks is deliberately going around blindly and like a gang of brainwashed idiots, following a false idol leader.

Because sometimes it is better if one switches to the hard-working mole-like mode and chews oneself out of the annual rings of infected promises and meaningless false words. Because the problem is still that every worm believes itself to be a winner at the same time, when it realizes that it has already pitifully swallowed everything. Behind the scenes - even so - it often happens that there may even be time to hunt each other!

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!

Loneliness has struck many times, even if it was a chronic, unexpected heart attack, in the catacombs of subconscious existence something may have happened once before birth; as if in the mutual exhibitionist role-playing that is now spreading like wildfire in the World, most people have been reduced to mere petty, corruptible tools by the weight of everyday life.

He clings uselessly between the gaps of seconds, because the persistent guilt of lives clothed in bodies pursues him for an entire mortal eternity. The stubborn-childish resistance that was called persistent has long ceased to exist in rebellious hearts: the time of nothingness has now come, he has been able to viscerally learn the nature of his chains that bind him in a tangle during his manhood dressed as an old man, the trap of vanities surrounds his conscious perpetrators.

Because almost everyone has known for a long time what stupid flock-admiration and love are good for, it is still easier for brainwashed sheep-betov to submit the formulas for sunken budget deficits. Late wills cannot yet prove the unfair judgment of a deliberately forgetful, stupid posterity. Stepping on nothing, fate will sooner or later only be fulfilled.

Now cosmic nuclear barking dogs are barking at a frantic pace in the corridors of the Zhivág wind; unconscious drunkards, ready to stagger, wander among dead souls, even false prophets give up the idyllic illusion-weight of memories, among the troubles of historical incompatibilities, we should be plucked like tadpoles among profit-devouring predatory fish, powerful sharks. Who was the hired hand and who was the lying subject?! In their squinting eyes, a false sympathy, a malicious gloating, a narrowing suspicion all at once growls; nothing and no one can be rock-solidly certain anymore. To sense the telepathic, visceral loathing, like a malicious, nauseating ***** odor.

You wouldn't even admit it to yourself now, but you are forced to guard your own inner silence with open eyes, before being violated again and again every day; you couldn't believe that, like the beasts, you still await the Lack or the executioner's rope as your fate, you are chewing away the iron door of your prison cell of existence instead of yourself, because you have to jump into the subconscious nothingness, so that later you can safely catch yourself like a goldfish.

All that is now referred to as a solid fact-Reality may sooner or later become a terrifying fate, because even the enraged, snarling wild animal is increasingly stalking you; you pick up tiny crumbs as steps, while you only bend down with a sore back for a good bite, because your birth-beginning could never really begin, and yet it is forced to pass.

The thought keeps stumbling faintly, so that it can finally lie down in your melancholy mouth, because karma holds it captive. You are either forced or unwilling to drag your own weight every day, like many, many self-reliant millions of ants, who have a goal floating before their mental eyes; to climb the besieging sacred peaks of the social pyramid, laws, petty, meaningless rules of the game are binding you tooth and nail in the name of the broken balance, so that everyone is now hunting, slapping, or scraping for themselves.

On your bumpy, worn-out path set out from your heart, it would have been good if at least one person had accompanied you, but you yourself can easily see how much of a phrase this is now, a bumbling speech. You will remain locked in yourself for life, silently following your own beaten shadow, like some limping, confused Sisyphus, because you can hardly do anything else. Your wrinkles write your apocryphal will on the clown wall of your eternal childish face...

Because now man can hardly do anything else: mere Existence is a pile of straw and a foolish faith in survival, needles and thorns constantly wound his bare feet until they bleed. Afraid or just an addict, a blind eye, a solid fairy tale about the promised dream lives, which at most only flow through a few tabloid media sewers every day at their pleasure.

A sluggish indifference coordinated to the inexorable rhythm of life instincts follows as a paid extra, to walk on the edge of the threshold of Existence on black and white squares, - it is true - only a few dare to do this.

As if restless, rebellious minds could hardly walk in slow motion through the undulating peaks and valleys of the soul believed to be immortal, like a buzzing link, like an ant together with the excluded inner loneliness of man creates the system theory of its symbiosis; because only great powers are able to rid extreme living conditions of pests. Stripped vacuums of timelessness are created and destroyed in seconds.

Each and every outgrown situation is increasingly strangely devalued, because the intentionally tamed childhood, which should never have been intentionally forced out with its raw brutality, has become a paper coffin in itself. Some similar, petty finite beings may sooner or later still recognize the one-essence: only seconds separate the bearable struggles of existence from falling towards the certain depths. The uncertainty hasn't made the days any more predictable.

Sooner or later, sweating and creaking, he will confess his inner, more feared soul to someone else; perhaps to a possible third party, if he still sees. He will catch a glimpse of himself in the sacred whirl of silently yawning curved mirrors, which show his truer, more authentic face, Wrapped in gauze of promise, like larval pupae we simultaneously chew on morsels, and we mutually reproach each other, because everything and everyone has its turn. Why is it necessary to continue to tolerate the frightened scolding of soul hordes?!

Today, man tolerates and endures his plunderers out of necessity. Perhaps one day he himself will become the atoning guardian angel of his selfish-belittled scoundrels; the false-shell of the appearance that they wanted to celebrate will finally burst, they fall apart, they drown in the anthill-like, fierce jungle-throng, big cities with the smell of Nineveh, rotten space-dirt and indifference-lined wild Lack keeps dancing on the hearts. It breeds on sinister shadows, like some infected big patient, the World is incurable.

It would be better to stop once and for all the unborn promise and grace that smells purely and exclusively of profit and money; instead of flirtatious, romantic purrs, the redeemability of the Universe - now they have consciously forced on the majority that it is necessary to live in a cage between the shallow, desolate walls of Europe; clinging to each other's shoulders, their tiger claws gnaw, and like cannibals they rest on the guts of fat-smelling moxings instead of flesh.

It tempts them regularly under the deep surface splashes; the most trusting feelings and movements seem like pontoon bridges; the howling of tame wolves can be heard in the stench of so many drunken and rebellious pubs, on the deserted alley walls of streets; in every storm and hurricane, like mad sheep, the crazy, brainwashed stupid crowd keeps clapping and it becomes less and less important who is friend and who is enemy! It would be appropriate to measure the unit of measurement of non-existent empathy and tolerance as a humane humanity!

Man, what are you doing again?! You simultaneously deny and glorify the infinite expandability, the nuclear mushroom cloud-born fate-cataclysms, which may even in seconds measure the values of Existence with the meaning of the ephemeris above your useless head; your meaningless words about how snow-white-feathered doves can still carry withered olive branches when they desire to settle and develop on new continents are shot out of your lying, preaching mass-mouth like slow rifle bullets; as if even mere understanding would give birth to a contradiction with itself, because the essential information is lost behind so much cheap, tinsel-like nonsense. Perseverance will not tremble, like a withered, rustling poplar leaf, because the diminishing chess game of its great power is sober, but unaccountable.

The foolish donkeys who want to move around are sleeping in many places. Suddenly, the crowded mountain range of kicked-out little people begins to bustle at their pleasure, the fraying, oxymoron-like skin of the agglomeration of people is increasingly skinned by the viscerally shallow, meaningless everyday calvary.

- The weak man scatters and then divides himself, since he can hardly do anything else; he endures, struggles, sweats blood, as long as he lives to be sixty or so years old, and since the pension he can give is meager and scanty even for death, he just keeps pulling the soul-killing yoke.

The Tower of Babel of the earth, like a house of cards taken from the air - prematurely -, collapses, because as the little man moves away from the spiral wheel of time, his independent, meaningful thoughts and his reasoning shrink between the glass teeth of timelessness, because everyone is tormented by the possibility of emigration under their skin, which just does not want to disappear, - in fact - would become stronger and stronger. Like two sword blades, the World is increasingly tearing its own deliberately sawn-off bird feathers...

Because now the slave and the master are equally typical; no one is given ownership rights anymore, a diluted, smooth bargaining handshake just scares you into lives and infinity. Is the current consciousness of Lack just a nonsense grotesque epochal picture, or an intentional one, which is no longer possible to fill sufficiently and with dignity?! Is it a big reckoning or who clings to the dwarf dreams of their embryonic age these days?!

The simple man now walks his fate as a slave with a household book, because there is hardly anything else left, at least here; stumbling on stone-heavy instincts, blinded reflexes, he should now serve a higher power with a tough, yet stubborn penguin-like slobber, because even the silenced mouth will sooner or later realize how much of a sucker and fool it is.

Above their heads, millions of scalpels and blades are already trembling with pure malice. Because what kind of vile, manipulative ideas brainwashed minds do not want to create a common humanism in the name of reason and free thought, which has perhaps always been considered a shortage in human minds?

A meager starvation-wage career, or a total failure?! Because it may seem that this is all that could remain; a ******, defiant lust for power, or an over-boiling pride, goes on and on, on the canvases of haphazard little idyllic dreams, pathetic filth, innocent people are constantly squeezed out by a non-existent promise, call, bargain, which may slightly ennoble the public feeling humiliated to dust. Living and witnessing people wander halfway between embodied shadows. The cunning answers of condensed anxieties cannot be measured, cannot be redeemed!

The proud light of summer, believed to be impenetrable, always seems to hide something eccentric and vile at noon; ravenous animals are sneaking around among the sapphire foliage of light trees. The foliage of peace – I fear – can only rarely be truly valid. Because the ancient footprint of certain unknownness can sink permanently into the forgotten dungeon sand at any time; the horizon soon spreads out from the souls that are moving away, because only the true All can enter the rose garden of the heart. The movement of livable economy evokes a wedding dance of desire of commanding hands and shadows. Only the blind can know the focus of vision, because the seers are becoming more and more stupid with their petty superficialities.

It would often be so simple and easy: the two angel wings of intertwined, lovable arms, like wide sails, would open, while the conceived emotion would whisper secret words between lips. Halfway between two cheap, pitiful secrets, the one-essence seems to tremble: perhaps there could have been meaning-value for the wasted centers of gravity of mutual emotions after all. In the corridors of worlds, chains of prisoners are now increasingly clanging uselessly.

Petty, selfish curses-words snap like whips on each other's heads and backs, which infect and destroy. In the depths of beating hearts, star-vaults should have flourished and opened, not only where inner instincts would have driven the weak human being. The restlessness stretched out inside now encloses man more and more permanently; They are driven by slutty desires, and they break the increasingly base rules of the game at will.

In most people, it seems that the ruthless, suspicious suspicion, the inner morphing that raises barriers, that you. need to crawl – if necessary, if not – on the edge of gaping chasms, is gradually awakening. It is no longer possible to explain everything with a series of yeses that assume everything, nos that await rejection. It would be good to let go of the excess weight nature of things as they are, let them go. Because often all that remains is the stinking mockery of silence and procrastination, the tactic of pretended, deliberate, delayed waiting, when it is not yet certain that one or the other side seems to move; the spiraling Time drags raging wreckage-lives in its wake.

Hands are still clinging to nothing, hoping for something, they are coaxing from the great whole, although in vain, because the privileged laurel now only comes to a privileged "some"; a self-inflicted loneliness has consciously ****** into itself human faces with cryptic voices, who have perhaps long since grown tired of the whole meaningless hair-raising. In the slowed-down final station between two stops, it would be in vain to discover the cheap testimony of those struggling with Being.

Because perhaps a person would do better if he only lived according to the law of Nirvana-Ninchen; no matter how much he knocks on strange doors and windows, bangs with beautiful words, with human sighs asking for help, the camp of the deliberately deaf can never hear it, because now increasingly brainwashed and stupid voices dictate the waltz, and small-style, cheap, cheerful rascals have designated After the wildly driven modern flea market, at least a hundred years of loneliness await man.

Halfway between heaviness and conscious cracks, not only the power of action and will cracks, but also a little of the uncompromising humility; the awakened self-consciousness would need to hear the inner wave-rumble of the Soul. Outside, drunken wasps are fighting over each other's squirming prey, drilling holes in the rich, juicy career fruits, thus radically limiting the realizations of completeness reserved for simple average people. Nowadays, fewer and fewer people can understand the broken string of truthful, sincere tears, the appearance-Reality seems to fall back into itself, and the emotion is corruptible.

The constant nervousness vibrating on the irises can also increasingly infect the persistent, ineradicable suspicion, which, like glue, really functions as an adhesive, even in the breakable appearance-exhibitionism, but it would be good – at least – to kick it in earnest every now and then. Only the persistent humming, murmuring of deafness in the tiny canals of hearing ears, which are no longer really worried about the fifteen decibels, but the general lines of informers and traitors, who, like silent accomplices, give each other the openable handles on the doors of offices that are thought to be closed.

On the neon signs on the dilapidated firewall, the ashen faces of some celebrity starlets still shine brightly, though not for long, because the moment one actually meets them, the cheap, tinsel-like pedestal that once surrounded the auras of personality, raised to light years, suddenly collapses. – Now they still tolerate the presence of silent listeners, nicknamed permanent – but be careful – maybe not for that long. It is as if one would now deliberately close the iron gate of raw silence on oneself, not letting even one's closest relatives in, who have known one since one's shipwrecked childhood.

How should you live your life better?! More than eight hours of your time is spent on the teeth-gnashing torment of general, but unrewarding work, of which – not much – is the overhead, and your pension is not sure to last you for the rest of your life. Three hours are spent just explaining to your kind of mouthy, adored wife with prehistoric methods why you can't go on vacation to the Maldives or the Seychelles even three or four times, because due to restrictions, even the free beaches of Lake Balaton have been largely closed to the simple, poorer classes of people. You tear your hair out like a petty, notorious neurotic, who – perhaps – is no longer sickened by a system, but by the many petty, bribeable puppet-men and puppet-deals, due to which this whole mess of filth is managed as a whole.

It might be a shame to replay the memories of petty physiological situational slaps and falls; otherwise you wouldn't get much out of it. Your beloved love suddenly announces: She's had enough of you, and that you've turned into a vile, worthless *******, unfortunately through no fault of your own, since there were layoffs at the multinational company where you've already spent about fifteen or twenty years.

How are you supposed to live your life better?! You don't even know, because in the meantime, your aorta seemed to burst due to an almost fatal heart attack, and your coronary arteries could use a lot of heavy and massive repair. You might still dare to act, but not only your life-walls, but also your Me-Time are being closed in a vile and wicked way, mainly by celebrities who constantly only understand the permanent sensation-*******, and of course they are paid handsomely.

Your youngest daughter mostly doesn't even want to know you anymore, because if you don't pull the ******* yoke of misery, and while you're in line for some baked goods in a supermarket, your daughter demands Barbie and a Frozen doll, and even a little mini-tyrant character will torture you until you can't take it anymore and at the end of your exhausted day you buy her the toy doll. What could your pitifully wasted life be for, when all you wanted was a little independent peace and a deck chair near the shade of your quince tree; and when your little daughter becomes a bride, you, like an old, toddling old man, ask yourself: ,,What did all those incomprehensible, melancholy decades of yours go for?!

It would often be easier, like blind Theiresias, to decipher, by scribbling on Braille paper, what the truer sincerity of the inner Soul hides in secret, encrypted. Why is it necessary nowadays to ***** more and more, even for the impossible; the nimbus of our understanding, logical intellect can surely be trapped in labyrinthine traps? It would be much better to approach the uncertain fate simply as a "tabula rasa" than as a good friend, because a trust-based relationship - no matter how much we might want it - rarely results from petty, petty conflicts.

What would have happened if Adam and Eve had decided to ignore the flattering, honey-glazed speeches of the serpent and had finally remained in the paradise conditions of the Garden of Eden, which proclaimed harmony?! - It may now seem increasingly that many unnecessary factors and solid data are continuously obstructing the communication channel that leads to understanding and actual compromise; instead of discovered loopholes and obligatory gibberish, it would have been better if they had embarked on the path of convincing compromise, and not hopelessly running after apparent possibilities offered on trays.

The world now looks like a lonely, unstable, volatile volcano ready to erupt. above; our quickly cleaned shame stains remain just like that even after the lyeing or hippoing nicknamed permanent. It seems that the dog no longer even thinks about the early fading Future; the mere will and humility have become a rusting mill wheel, with which the mass-people of changing Ages dig the pits of their selfish graves. Who could want – only in their own way – to listen with understanding ears to the testimony of inner, bursting wounds?! In deliberately deaf Ages, a nuclearly calculated mushroom cloud produces defenseless victims!

The eternal-child soul may one day grow up to the ennobled tragedies of fate; it will be blinded by the lack of Nothing that nests in the subconscious, because only one chance is possible for the pairs of proportions. In the meantime, as the periods of life history alternated more and more shallowly, the desire for certain falls became insoluble again. The foaming waves of oceans also lost their sails, because man cannot find the Odyssey of homesickness only in death. One day man will understand why it is necessary for him to still post faithfully in temporary circumstances on the bands of the lowest boundlessness, so that his time does not run out early, the promised fruits of the small Sisyphean weights without space and time can only grow and be created around the house of others.

Why can't the human word find a suitable analogy for the inner, more hidden soul?! Because there is only one possible answer to completeness, just like the fillable Universe?! Today's digitally underdeveloped age deliberately lacks the reliable monotony of paced, rhythmic slowness; even in the beating, feeling heart, there is a total lack of emptiness if it is unable to decipher and interpret the belittling feedback of a given microenvironment. The feelings of the duplicated Self are often consciously covered up by the personality that shows the surface.

- They put their self-identity to sleep, or wake it up from its dreams. Because Being, a little beyond death, finally rests on the branch of Nothingness!

The budding romantic morning of summer, like a colorful veil, is now torn into tiger stripes; the musty-smelling darkness of Sikátor is unraveling from itself in strands. Man would like to throw off not only his nightmares, like a worn, worn, worn-out coat, but also the germs of human-smelling, two-faced evil. Like a thick, impassable door, which can lead to who knows where - all the sinful sins of infinity close on us unnoticed. that we have become mortal, and our immortal soul cannot be completely independent, free, locked in the cage of our body. Even now, above every dream-career, a rubbed, greedy, petty condor vulture circles, feasting on the remains of mooching prey. It would be good if we could strip our inner souls of finite sadness, like the secret anatomy of sorrow, because inside – often barely noticeable – a firm barking that wants to whine how loudly roars.

Man always dies a little in his Sisyphean selfishness, he can never fully understand the helpless absurdities of filling up. Hour by hour, not only conscious small-mindedness grows, but also the universally expanded fear of failure and success, according to which: no one can be good enough either for himself or for the great, hypocritical World. In crypt faces, increasingly vile, evil grotesque grins look at witnesses, hypocritical prophets, like grimaces.

The selfishness of the world first necessarily consumes, but also surprisingly often buries its defenseless victims, who would still have clung to something. Wrapped up in petty sermons of words, like pupae, people mostly betray and betray themselves first. Fewer and fewer people can take an understanding look at the precise evidence of corruption!

Sleepless Times, which can conspire at any time even in the tamed land of dreams – if they so choose. Signs of the past should be nursed, who carry the pain of stigma wounds unnoticed. Like the children who were made to sit in silent silence or were scolded, who could not get gummy bears, Playstations, or anything else – now, as if the dawning morning light involuntarily humiliates a person deeper and deeper... Like the tiny ants, a person can also increasingly – if you are not careful – break into broken mosaic pieces, which nothing, not even the laws of the Universe, can put back together;

The secret worldly materials of humanity and spirit can no longer be realized by the balancing desire for certain instinctual satisfaction. Unsuspecting, they cross so many belittling, forbidden thresholds, because they are sufficiently careless, unwary, and involuntarily violate the inner silence of the secret circles of the soul. On the fate-woven veil of Being, a stray, clinging cobweb thread often tips over; the secret mood melancholy of joy and sorrow, just like the secret pendulum of moods, changes every second, like the devil's spasm. Because the eternal Nothing can still be lost by the crumbling Lack, because it lacks the secret umbilical cord that once organically chained its defenseless, lonely victims to Life!

The fragments of memory, like the potsherds, can break at any time; first only the found, yet hesitant movement falls apart, then the hug, or perhaps the handshake. We reserve the pitiful entrance to our cold, cheap, petty secrets – at least for now – for the competent love who would bring the One-Dear!

Ever since man has been conscious, he has been aware of it a little: here, it seems as if everything has suddenly ceased to exist, has been ruined, has been destroyed, as if there is no way to go anywhere or escape from here, because the whole big World is totally ruined. Nothing is and cannot be in rock-solid order anymore. It is as if not only the cells, organs, but also the driving springs of the internal body responsible for digestion, which also operate the heart acting as a pump, are deliberately becoming heavier.

And already – without a doubt – the tiny vibrations of the soul still move themselves faithfully, perhaps the dog no longer even pays attention to them. The inner longing torments the man's guts more and more; to go or to remain still for a few more ownerless, uninhabited decades, until we are no longer forty but fifty or sixty years old, and the piles of feces of our dreams and plans intended for realization dissolve into old men.

There is rarely a way out of the tingling grip of enormous lead weights, because sooner or later, one way or another, one must necessarily perish unworthy among the mists of gray, mortal dawn. The latent Lack grafted into Nothingness can still be held to an infinite account, because it would always interrupt, cut off the conscious realization to which man would generally still cling. Should we be left to rot, so that the eternal-childish fear and anxiety boil halfway?!

A touching tide of phrases of nauseating, nauseating speeches; that how much easier it would be if I-Time could be somehow expanded, although it is universally known that it is all in vain, because a single day only has 24 hours, and because there are many people for whom even 36 hours are becoming less and less!

In every age, this rigid falling flight stretched to the point of invisibility, into which a person involuntarily, inescapably clings out of necessity, because he can hardly do anything else. Belittling, selfish wasps lurk, dipping their stingers deep into your skin, in your built life, which you have scraped for yourself; you yourself rarely notice that you have become a decoy, who can continue to be led, deceived.

Out there, a crowd of brainwashed idiots, like fevered moles who have lost their minds, are constantly digging tunnels of dubious, pitiful careers, because they think that there is greater success, where one can lick some people's *****, but in vain, because a lying larval silence clings to their already ***** souls.

Because in livable life, the balance, which is already unstable and indifferent to the core, is increasingly tipping, namely, who is pulling which way and where?! Why do we have to stumble up and down endless eternities amidst constant tugs?! The un-understood wound is breaking into fragments of uncertain, doubtful tomorrows.

The selfish stigma-sins of fearful coincidences can hardly be heard by the ear of a simple person anymore; Now it has become more and more customary that retirement is just a privilege, and can only be given, and whoever, forty-something years later, still wants to recover from the anxieties of a stormy childhood with any dignity, would be better off going to Hell, so that they can at least warm up and not freeze to death for lack of fuel. This is how pre-planned desires, instinctively calculated plans, and objectives become old men with stomachaches, urinary stones, and toddlers. They doze off with their livable lives out of necessity!

On the Nineveh-smelling, alley-like street corner, habit is becoming increasingly furious. The plum body of indifferent public sentiment seems to be withering; the petty rage of moods is also stirring more and more imperceptibly, although for now only in melancholy silence, because the big city is already infected with work-horror, the face of a hack is always suspicious; since no one is named and no one polishes parquet floors and terracotta stones to their liking and the total is always doubtful, because it is constantly changing.

In disposable job grinders, stadium-sized emotions try to stir the stagnant water; the always imported melon peel has long since rotted, just like the pitted, crunchy but wormy cherry, because even the last thoughts cannot really win on their own. Deep in the soul – fearful –, man would in vain seek smaller wormholes for himself in a self-willed rebellion, and then with transparent hearts, like a wandering ghost, to wander carefully throughout his life, because in this consumer society no one can be truly himself anymore.

And since perhaps no one finds it, because they could not really look for the hiding place of happiness, the unbearably deliberate narrow path of existence now leads to total Nothingness, the disenfranchised meaning of which is increasingly difficult for anyone to understand. Man rolls heavy boulders like Sisyphus in vain if he cannot settle anywhere and remains in one place. More and more emphasis is placed on superficial, exhibitionistic artificiality, while the small child crouching in the soul is gradually, intentionally forgotten.

They can leave their moldy faces hanging for decades on some arrogant, rusty copper screws, from which protruding nails sneer their ominousness; modern man is increasingly showing withdrawal symptoms that seem to be hidden!

It has now begun to be a passing malaise, to be punished for everything, except for one's own faults, when not only things, melancholy objects, but also calculating and suspicious glances behind the back of the defenseless, vulnerable person, who is - usually - left alone to a sufficient extent, look at each other like silent accomplices. They dig their wildcat claws into the skin, saying: "Let it hurt, just calmly!"

- That is why the majority can gradually come to like totally catastrophic circumstances at any time. A single happy self-forgetfulness, self-deception, self-deception is now just enough for a person to compromise at any time or to perform a ritualistic Turn of the Way; carrion flies, petty thugs peck at their pleasure, spitting on the germs of a more livable life that yearns for order. Is every path both anger and humility?! Halfway between the two, a mirage of speech that has neither ears nor tail.

Guided by the weight of memories, and then burned, it would still be good to cling to the echoes of encrypted heartbeats, which comfortingly alleviate the apocalyptic ominous omens of sadness. Every phantom pain is also a trench dug with us also; the taste of sleepless nights among the rusting gears of the brain, wondering if Someone would still pay attention; a futile squirrel circling in a chained labyrinth, from which there is no and can no longer be a way out anywhere.

– The embankment road is constantly closed; sometimes due to flooding, sometimes due to noise! Anyway, it leads to underworld filth and filth. All unnecessary alarms and cries were a false alarm, let the neglected anger and injured self-consciousness wear away quite calmly on the sunken, slightly eternally childish face.

Oh, how many more titanically baptized, melancholic Ages, in which creative loneliness still resonates?! Sensationalism, a blind window of color blindness of devotion. Because even now the known and definite human yes and no mutual gambling game is constantly straining against each other; more and more at the mercy of a higher power every day, no one wants to accept the inexorable contradictions that could even supplement the foundations that have become unstable like a house of cards?!

The human soul today is more like a closed, secret book, which should be opened and turned carefully; one must understand the multifaceted meaning of the hidden Morse and Apocryphal codes if one wants to read it. In any case, it is increasingly difficult to gain safe entry through the wide keyhole of brainwashed skulls. – Even those who are ready for action are increasingly finding indifferent readiness everywhere.

The quarrelsome preachers could one day be replaced by a peaceful, wise spiritual agitator. A horde of grunting rascals is now huddled on the ruins of the world, they do not know how to survive their uncertain future. Because it is easier to exist confined to an inner infinity than to play around in the name of free will. The wretched, tinsel-like business shop has been handed over to gnawing rats and mice.

Because a clever phrase wants to puff itself up again and again on the shoulders of some straw men. – Now they are even burning invisible seals and stamps not only into the skin, but also into the chasms of the soul. The bowing, slobbering penguins are limping into this melancholy age; because they may know them as Executioners or good friends, they make a nicely gesticulated obeisance.

They serve spoiled food specialties and seafood to the unsuspecting VIP - star guests, who have especially delicate stomachs anyway. And while quite a few have just switched to the pleasures of zero-calorie diets and paleo diets as a fashion, they also deliberately make themselves ***** so that they can fit into the new trendy and fashionable clothing collection in time!

The morning, light summer breeze, as if it were already breaking the rope of our executioner; dark worries and troubles are entering everyday life, now driving stealthy, talkative conditions here and there, until they can only fit on their roaring throats. As if the scarecrows were voluntarily sitting on each other's backs, impaled. As if everyone's eyes and mouths had been sewn shut with the weights of padlocks, just so that they wouldn't have to protest or rebel.

- A deliberately thickened powder plaster spreads over the models' faces, but who can see their real, hidden faces?! It would be better to turn two truthful mirrors to face each other, to see who is lying and who is still telling the appearance-truth. As if the yellowed copy were already rolling itself backwards out of habit; how we should have become when we were still full of world-saving dreams and childish plans, our ever-increasing debts to others, so we ***** ourselves.

As if we should deliberately celebrate our conscious inadequacy. We are quite stuck in this already viscerally self-depriving robber Age, from which there is no way out; because mortals may still suspect that waiting is in every respect only the privilege and virtue of the dead, they have put together so many hackneyed, futile farewell sentences. The celestial stars dreaming of happiness hidden in superstitious eyes are carrying out a celestial degradation.

Wherever the simple average person turns, the excrement and ***** smell that spreads in the old sink of the Universe greets him, and the walled-in, meager poverty-stricken pension awaits him deep in mailboxes, which is not enough for anything, at most only for starvation. The only time your shaving day will end is if the Gillette blade accidentally cuts you off and hits an orphaned artery!

I often find myself in the crossfire of my actions and words, like condemned prisoners awaiting their own execution, tolerated and resigned, who have nothing more to lose and perhaps can never have anything more to lose. My cheekbones are covered with tearful petals, which curl back halfway, because like rusting rabbi's handcuffs: my extravagant, yet murderously honest words ring out on me, which no one understands and which not even the dog is interested in.

It would be nice if there were some inner arctic melting deep in my vulnerable, much-experienced heart, which would melt everything and heal my selfish, stigmatized wounds. My uncertain Future hangs on thin ropes, as I cannot even guess the weight of the temporary questions and answers that surround me unnoticed and often blackmail me, just like the massive camp of the demanding.

They may think that just another sucker or a tamed wild beast has got in their way, if they see that I go into myself every single day to decipher the value of the present. Conscience is most similar to an oceanic howl, which keeps speaking to me from deep within, and whose wise words should be listened to and heeded. – They often cannot even see it, since it is hidden, like almost so many things: a secret earthquake, a volcanic eruption rumbles on my face hidden deep within, like a tense heart attack that comes with stress.

I will escape, you will see, like a strange, disciplined guest-courier, who was only invited as a guest, for a surprisingly short time and will no longer be beaten by either real estate or fist-law. – My dreams lie on top of each other, which are unachievable for the next twenty to thirty years due to the lack of financial and human resources.

Useless, depressing summers suddenly become nothing, and like a balloon they burst; it is better to deliberately avoid irritable people, even if one risks the open Gandhian freedom from conflict, since it is always the same ones who do the sensational mischief for the world. A party queen of mimicry and hysteria, racing on endless petty steps, who even replaces the so-called dead night around her at will.

The world of sincere human feelings has begun to decay. The "how much I love you!" "I only need you, because with you I can still be myself" - phrases that were so good to listen to back then in the moments of the beginning love intoxication, because the first happier meeting was swallowed up by some unknown, strange, strange crack, a gaping hole, as if someone had smuggled a gluttonous Discontinuity between the beating hearts.

Nowadays, not even the dog is very curious about our half-sentences that have been nervous for decades, hesitantly mumbled, because everything has become superficial, negotiated, breakable contracts, which are followed by a new one that can be manipulated and challenged.

- The two mirror faces are paralyzed into identical grimaces, because deep down they already know that they have lost because their unconditional love and selfless trust have been shattered. The boredom of romantic desires often bores me precisely because of this, because the other party is also increasingly suspicious.

Like some cursed, black widow A fierce malaise surrounds a person everywhere, if he stumbles upon superficial, meaningless promises and statements; he drowns in forced, hemorrhoid-causing laughter, which should have happened so that he could not later return to the prison walls of conscious Lack!