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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not enough that our spiritual stigma wounds repeatedly opened up after experiencing a more serious tragedy of fate, but it was as if our invisible fate had secretly taken revenge on us, simply by turning against us; how many times is it necessary to pay an eternal, untimely debt?! Money, work, nature may no longer be enough, because souls must and must be devoured here and now, because will and humility have ceased to exist, just like sincere trust.

Like a bottomless pit, one time continuum provides a passage to the other; Anger and fear, as well as nagging anger, nowadays often enter into a pact with each other in the name of harmfulness, because the flavors of intoxicating kisses now have the smell of rotten apples, from the distance of time, an unsolicited whisper slowly trickles down, warning the weak person: wake up to Reality!

Their pathetic self-pity has been deliberately slowed down, its second round will only come when each person learns to value themselves enough to not have to dig their daily well-deserved dinner out of the stinking piles of garbage containers, because there was no other.

The lady also prefers to scrape the pretzel from her fried meat, because it increases the risk of cellulite and then she will no longer be so supermodel-perfect in her fierce bikini. A complicated struggle in the soul is the result of deepening pockets, which everyone keeps to themselves and cannot show to anyone; Even manipulable mistakes will become completely human, as long as there is always at least one person to make sure they understand!

As if one could sense at once that the passage of Time, like aging, is some kind of manipulable, unexpectedly prepared, live prelude to the uncertain, increasingly burdensome, because when Being ages, not only the physical attributes, but also the soul, the actors in the outside world, and relatives are less and less willing, or even more and more deliberately, to ignore those who have become useless in their greedy, petty eyes.

The wind constantly brings the sermons of old men and dog barking, that often a simple person cannot even feel like living; the latest pension plan is more of a labyrinth twisted into itself, a pitiful experiment, because no one has yet managed to build stable houses of cards from the little extras. As if they were deliberately banging their heads against concrete walls, because they know that they will never break like a humanoid skull.

A panopticon of empty illusions and imaginations still embraces its childish victims who want to hope. But for what?! The spinach-green language of executioner times keeps playing, pulling people to their liking. As if everyone is deliberately trying to outwit the system of sensual disappointments as impressions with their total sobriety, which can be manipulated in the same way by a flirtatious smile, a mischievous, eye-catching, but calculating look; all in vain! If only we could rarely hold on to the salvation of embracing or strange arms!

One day, one will not even notice, and from one's buildable failures and somersaults, a few improvised houses of cards will collapse cheerfully in no time; one day, not only the petty, mischievous baby-tooth premiums, which it would have been good to give to every employee at least towards the end of the year, but also the regular pensions, whose basic value does not change, only their transparency and value are continuously decreasing, will start to leak through every crack.

Because they do not always say what the intentions of the ratings are, let alone keep the individual, the average individual, who cannot know anything about anything, completely calmly under the devilish veil of permanent uncertainty, since reason is already increasingly discouraged and disillusioned and hanging its dream-intoxicated head.

It can be hard to admit that Life is often like a group of crooks and fake card players cheating each other at the same time, because there has long been no honor for thieves, while the stock market speculation on the World Wide Web watches with superior, condescending indifference the pitiful slug-fight, which is usually produced by some social community even several times a day.

They walk around with indifferent Janusz poker faces and, if they like, even wander around a usable industrial or garbage hill, where even cockerels are used to scratching around, hoping to find priceless treasures in the mud. - Thinking a little more carefully, it is only possible to distribute truly essential and extremely important things to say and announcements in a veiled, dosed manner, mainly to those who can afford to pay more for them!

They are not going up the stigma-gradient - they are more like molehills, getting trapped in pitiful holes, going down, just as the standard of living is starting to sink more and more every day and is amortizing itself!

Outstretched bird wings are cherished by the bars of a wire fence; we wonder to ourselves: where should we go from here to be a little better off?! To be finally free from the shackles of a dull, difficult everyday life?! The possible opportunities - a small consolation - now only provide measurable, well-deserved laurels for the few chosen ones. We ourselves are obstacles on the petty, crooked donkey ladder of self-assertion, because the average person cannot decide by what yardsticks the value of even real manual labor is measured, and because our own limitations have long been torn and torn apart again.

As if everywhere, inquisitive, soul-seeking eyes were watching in the digital space, perhaps just like among the grains of sand of Time, whose tormented passing we feel in our old bones; it surrounds people mercilessly, almost like an interrogator, the indecipherable cause-and-effect relationship is merciless, according to which: was it better to work thirty-six hours a day sweating, breaking stones, mixing asphalt, tar, and mate for less than someone who pushes paper ***** to their heart's content in the depths of air-conditioned, cool mouse-hole rooms, and for more?!

The intentionally endless spirals of branches and detours seem to be all the same age as the invisible Universe from which they were taken; man, like a shipwrecked Robinson swinging on a driftwood, would still like to cling to the shoreless tomorrows, although he feels that the chances are getting smaller and smaller!

When our face will become a face, and not just another Janus-torso, a fiasco constantly grumbling with itself, perhaps the conscious lack raging within us will unexpectedly go out, will be tamed. In the vision-life, many small devils, tempting us to sin and deceit, rumble among the gears of the head, and because in human life there are rarely guides comparable to Virgil, who could faithfully accompany us on difficult days, - one way or another - sooner or later everyone must cross the conscious threshold of finitude for themselves. In our bodies and souls, a hundred thousand sorrows are already outdated, aging, not only from the history of decades, but what is still left of this whole mess; the angry, pure judgment still groans inside:

Reality also compares itself more and more to a grotesque, surreal dream-like cage according to the rules of a given Gluttony theory. In the lost Time, the conscious use of language, the bone-house system dreamed of as solid by the longing for romance, will gradually wear out. - Pondering the movables of ant-minutes, the selfless helping hands are becoming rarer and rarer. Exotic supermodel-shaped angels stare piercingly at spiky star-eyelashes; their fate - you may know - cannot be free, nor irresponsible, because they are all just cheap, petty puppets of a single game.

It would still be good to walk around the scale-steps of Being with giant strides surrounded by blood, in case the frail man could find lasting treasures among the piles of feces; Why do we have to keep moving into the fiascos of alienated tomorrows when a more real home-shelter could be waiting somewhere?! The seagulls of lack have been screaming overhead for some time now and we still don't know whether the melancholy silence nicknamed timeless will finally **** in the suspicion of everyday life, or is it just lazy indifference?!

In life - even if you wanted it to - there can be no more random, pleasant coincidences like some special, already agreed upon, ready-made surprise that among the hiding of cells and instincts, as in most biochemical continuities, the unconditionality of the hidden yeses could still be decoded, for which a relationship that is supposedly lasting, in principle, is still being built. One or two amino acids or DNA helixes still argue, conspire, and get into trouble; it is not even certain that the bombshell lady, whom we asked out on a date due to numerous rejections and persistent failures, will finally give in and, out of sheer neighborly kindness, nod and say yes to a pleasant evening of dinner.

The heavy stone flies at the end of the date, and hits the wounded, stupid, idiot, who believed that he was as valuable as anyone else. Evolution seems to have largely rejected flattery, courtship, and the usual etiquette and manners, the only possible measure of which is material well-being and a luxurious lifestyle.

Misfortune attacks from an ambush, it can sneak up on its defenseless, still hopeful victims; they stand in endless spiral lines with their selfish-greedy happiness recipes, because standing in a given line can rarely let go, because in a narrow space we are jostling and trampling uselessly like eternal whirlwinds.

As if we were just robbing each other, we would be robbing each other by trying to assert ourselves by trampling on anyone, in a world from which the appearance of tolerance and empathy has completely disappeared. Our inner, sinful destruction carries the fierce, Sisyphean weight of a huge self-destruction. The giant projector of the soul preserves more than a million memory slides, until Alzheimer's or dementia catches up with it. The ancient secrets of the Universe are already kneaded and coded into our instincts, and yet we often do not dare to safely open our vulnerable hearts.

It is also increasingly difficult to decipher the love of two unknown beats with its bitterly perverse Apocryphal symbols; because sooner or later everyone, increasingly sympathetic, just stumbles upon themselves. Our everyday annoyance is thus devoured by the tolerated patience, whose voice - at least - we do not listen to for the time being.

On the corridor of our dreams, we continuously distance ourselves from the fabric of real reality, of which we are still a part; in an instinctive vacuum, we shrink to endpoints, like the humming worms in the passages chewed by moles under the omniscient surfaces. We stare into the empty distance for a long time, since no one can yet see the certain interpretations. The silence of the outcast - fearful - although it does not teach us to live like a wise thinker, because it is becoming increasingly difficult to survive.

When somewhere, sometime, we think that the nature of our messy, confused things should be put in order, then all purposeful investments start to falter; greedy, snarling swarms of locusts would tear each other apart even further, because they no longer want to know the nature of the satisfied boundaries.

The World pours into us in rays from everywhere, which increasingly sets the consumer society as the only possible goal, while placing material well-being on the sole pedestal. But how much longer?! Every shell of loneliness is already fragmenting, since man cannot even trust himself, let alone others.

Even sweaty humanity already exists only in torn, fraying rags, or at most only if they can still pay for it. An invisible digital hand is pulling the current generation of cyber-donkeys on their pullable umbilical cords, who perhaps can no longer think in the long term, realistically, because a given phalanstery, mechanized intelligence, does it for them.

It is somewhat characteristic of all of us that we now deliberately disregard even the generally predictable laws of physics, just to get ahead with dignity and urgent immediacy; it could be a totally clogged traffic jam, where most drivers can drive to their heart's content, or a ten-hour professional, deadly conference, where most slave-riding boss-sharks only demand things for themselves. And the university is no longer about what it used to be, when fire-breathing prophets were used in common cultural matters to shake up an entire community.

It now seems more and more like everyone has made deals and contracts for their own benefit, and they have really made a deal!

The core of the storm scattered the honey drops of sunlight one by one yesterday; every broken, abandoned memory glittered in it. From the inner lightness, the slimy naked snail skin inside cannot be any more radiant or brighter, at most only stickier. The exhausted, tiring body still secretly tenses at both ends, because even the meaningless word is silent in speech. Why is it necessary now to deliberately and almost ostentatiously abandon the shores of common sense and then of thinking intellect, when nothing else is likely to prevail?!

Because even the dog cannot want to glide in fair chess games and sentence paths, it prefers to choose an easier, more bribeable bumpy path, the gaudy protrusions of Alamus intersections; even complex sentences of absurd conciseness are considered redundant. The unchainedness of hesitant fingers has also left them, because they have learned that only those who have been accomplished are allowed to be attached, while the simple average is also discarded.

Before the one for whom the answers to be decided were truly intended could even ask anything, the ancient answer unsettles; because the one who may know the most now has been a deliberate accomplice and silent for a long time. The narrowing, sluggish shred of emptiness grows deeper in the soul.

The turbulent river of Time is still beating, foaming, collapsing in on itself, kneading and walling its victim-members; at once challenging and provoking. The confused, confused outline of the uncertain future is becoming increasingly confused, barely visible. The driven night is still flying the bats of our own greedy wall, because the invisible Fate also writes its own rules of the game, its indecipherable symbols; the delicate mockery dictated by the horoscopes, which can be guided, is - I fear - no longer believed by the dog. Balanced on a double spiral track imposed by evil powers, fate also drifts a little with all its steering towards oblivion.

The deceptive mysticism finally vanishes from man, as the only net of mystery; mysterious, dissipating noses lurk beneath me, because one no longer knows who is friend and who is foe. One could be more relieved if one were lulled into self-loathing by the crystal-clear and always honest destruction of love. - The repressed night is the typical question-answer of the prophecy, the hoyan, and while the hieroglyphic flight of the bats destroys situations of existence, every day on the earthly orbit of the evil powers, everything must be started anew.

It is also worth being wary of life's wagging tail, because it is not possible to keep on wagging back every five seconds; the safety rope of the air gymnast's raging frenzy has run out, deliberately cut under the legs.

Somewhere in Europe, the bells have been struck aside again; the sluggish, deliberately forgettable Alzheimer's memory is already knocking on centenary stones. Shrinkage, schizophrenic self-consciousness, still points out tottering reason, pondering with its hesitant finger; a swarming herd of rats always spawns on new battery banks, because something attracts them. Even among epic seers and falsely testifying prophets, there are more and more blind fools, if they believe that a happier, more satisfied future can unexpectedly infiltrate us through creaky gaps.

Petty, selfish, destructive intentions flow hand in hand, just like illusions and lofty ideals; the cracked jar of past times can no longer bring deserved relief. Behind guarded gestures, forbidden grimaces, there can hardly be any stray human intention that could recreate the apparent wholeness, because even in the overbreathed suffocation, the musty, cellar-smelling air can get stuck at any time. Alamus snails march in order with their Milky Way mucus on the spearheads of rain-soaked grass blades and perhaps they are not even excited by a minor nuclear annihilation.

An old man-child hurries across the rails, stopping halfway, and perhaps looking back for those who still stared like idols of salt in the manipulable minutes of moments; the expanding Time will be dominated by space for a single minute.

Why do we feel that if they have been lined up for decades, as if Time were a false witness, even innocence would contaminate a person to the core?! From the black-and-white films of negatives - back then - it would have been much easier to evoke an eternal moment in the captivity of darkrooms, which is perhaps characteristic only of each individual.

The roads directed towards the finish line have become one-way labyrinths, just like the crossroads of the desire for faith. Many may not know it yet, but mere good-willed intentions are not always certain to be chosen with free will.

Often they do not dare to notice the hunters lurking in the depths of everyday life, who exist and breathe just like anyone else; one could say that they deliberately, with superficial pleasure, eviscerate life to the core. - because now fewer and fewer people are excited by the consciousness of half-humanity; that they sold themselves and made a deal.

The good thing about romantic love in the past was that it was as if the One-Beloved had carried the feelings in her womb, so that she could then give them birth every day, while the pain was replaced by selfless, radiant happiness. In every case, it ends the same way; whoever sets out on a long, unknown journey is not sure that he will find what he was really looking for. One wonders where he could have ruined the selfish game theories, as well as the manipulable psychological tools, if he looked into superstitious eyes!

As if all dislikes were now uniform; like an iron ball wishing to hang on chains, it swings unnoticed in the depths of the soul's mine, harder than granite, yet still softer than conscious Nothing. Almost everything is now made up of manipulation and a series of pretense. It would be nice to spontaneously get stuck in an idyllic, well-deserved dream as long as possible, and where the expandable concept of Time does not exist.

Mobile smartphones are now unexpectedly and intentionally ringing into the chaos of already total-comatose awakenings; as if our crouched objects were gradually swept away by obsolescence, contrary to the supersonic levels of technological development. - In addition to small and large victims, small and large executioners and privates also regularly wield the scalpel, or even the razor, at their pleasure.

Because the Cerberus-devouring dogs are not allowed to join the holy choir of the persecuted these days, that would be too much of a snare for them. Packs of prey are grouped into starving hordes, while outside, strayed flocks bleat into the lost flock; for a long time, no redeeming forgiveness has flowed from the grass, even if it is trampled down once and for all. Every relationship becomes ambiguous, even if it does not want to - but is deliberately disemboweled or humiliated. The only question is: who will believe in survival and at the same time guarantee it?!

If we are not careful in this current brainwashed, diluted existence, our peanut-sized brains will be ground into a nut-core mass by the many vile, slanderously otherworldly speeches, the unworthy preaching of exaggerated promises. All the undeserved blows, slaps-showers have already run around the walls of the skulls, because common sense has long ago locked the gates of the temples. The knowledge and certainty that you must live as a wanderer now increasingly batters you, then suspends you.

The infected pus just pours out of the leaking Existence-cracks, like the honey-glazed judgments of false prophets. Where is the courage?! - ask the suspicious, just like the compromised, when it would be good to hold on to the power of a helping friendly hand, or to the gaze of the Kind savior angel, because even so, there are and will be ugly days when people would rather waste away like silent stones in the oozing mass-mud than on the glue-smelling surface, from which - it may very well seem - there is no escape.

Those who can still understand a chain of connections can resist all drifting, - though not for eternity and beyond. The message of cheerful human-charmers at the benevolent words of *******-angels will also be a delusion, an illusion. The holy shackles of truth and honesty must be broken apart by a newly concluded vague contract, by petty manipulative bargaining, so that they cannot function; live and create. A wild din rages among scattered human herds; it breaks the shackles of stoic silences, with which one could still protest, because somewhere deep down one feels: one cannot sell oneself!

It is becoming more and more necessary to descend into myself at every age; on the edge of the expandable Time and perhaps beyond. The tangled coils of my brain often form a Gordian knot, a lasso is tied by the consciousness of what else I need to ruin in order to develop, to learn, or just to learn from my petty, childish mistakes. From the neighbor, I hear a swarm of bee-like shouting, a childish scolding.

Two twin boys are madly in love again, wondering who can try out the newest Playstation?! In my selfish cave system, the film reels of my memories are still rolling unnoticed, addressing me; from the corners of long, winding rivers, a familiar face or two may still look back. Nothing can be a sufficiently black-and-white, silent episode in a person's life. My sickly foot stumbles halfway between spinning mosaic tiles.

I would recognize the echoing sound of my footsteps anywhere, only my Beloved is missing on one of my inner paths. Out there, in an unlivable desire to survive, they are at each other's throats, like wolves and hyenas who betray themselves at any moment, just so that they alone can be right; in my hamster-like cheek pouch, I have chewed a few Haribo gummies or a Neapolitan stringy snack, so that I never forget that I was once a child and curiously simple-minded.

Wild beasts and beasts are now raging in humanoid bodies at the same time, and one turns one's head in question: Will there never be a peaceful feeling of well-being, harmony, or development here?! Media-celebrity monkeys who are unable to articulate dictate fashion trends, while nameless-minute-humans receive millions in salaries from someone somewhere! We are increasingly unable to organize our evicted, mischievous lifestyle in a frugal manner!

One after another, like well-developed wax figures, bounce down from the Ferris wheel of the city of Nineveh: first drunken, saucy brats, later disco rats proclaimed as cool party faces, chirping teenage queens, who are primarily interested in the media and the beauty industry and have no intention of taking an advanced high school diploma or taking an English language exam. They may not be accountable to anyone but themselves, because they are rushing through the already confusing, drafty decades, when nothing is what it seems; even pretend friendships can no longer save them from their sullen loneliness.

The sluggish boredom of the senses is still reflected in their gullible instincts. They may still pay dearly for their lives. They rarely wake up from their unconscious quarantine dreams to the warning crowing of the rooster at dawn; on the one hand, they are not interested in the already uncertain and shallow Future, on the other hand, they find themselves in the certain knowledge that as long as their ancestors take care of everything for them, life will shower them with new idyllic gifts.

The streets, littered with ***** and burnt cigarette butts, are still weary in their remaining fatigue, and the equality of opportunity believed to be solid for survival, or survival, cannot particularly kick a ball for them. Clinging to the porches of their teeth, lame pity curses itself just like stretched tolerance, because the fact of safe crossing has become unconsciously meaningless!

If you no longer pay attention - I fear - you will no longer be able to notice the boulders suspended by a hair's breadth in time, if the unwary squeeze under them and they flatten you in a fleeting minute. Not paying attention to mortal Time, you still give yourself up, always only watching the atomic chaos of the World that has begun to become confused.

Certainty, like some old, twentieth-rate, petty little spy, builds itself in you, and *****-nilly you will expect your passing from your birth. Because even now you are still constantly looking back, in the distorted images of crooked mirrors you measure the centers of gravity of your wasteful years in moments; and you cannot understand that you have already done so much, even in the place of others, and yet you have not been able to tear off the spiral prison-handcuffs of Time from your sinful soul.

For some time now, only the eternal oblivion that has been left alone has been your pillow and at the same time your pillow; Your searching eyes wink at the infinite horizon and even now he doesn't know that he was wrong at all, that he was unable to start a new life.

Your memories are horribly confused, like so many sins of your petty and selfish past; they break their contracts not only according to the laws of the heart but also according to human laws; and while a tachycardia malfunction may become common due to the approaching dangerous raging infarctions in your heart, you know: the emergency services are always half an hour late. Your body's fever curves would warn you with alarm signals that you should always avoid high blood pressure and long-sugared cakes.

Instead of the former endless lines of existence, something from over there is sending messages on increasingly closed spiral centrifuge paths; it almost flirtatiously invites you to leave this lying One-World here, which has become unworthy, even if you have a million and one tasks left. The circle that returns to itself - if you are not careful - can break prematurely...

Who would have thought that even within a few decades, pop and celebrity culture infected with postmodernity could be so resonant, calculating, and pathetic?! It's like some kind of anchored, stupid social pyramid game, Phalanx theories that produce mass people want to prevail by tripping each other up, and just like Orwell's 2+2 can rarely be 4. Average people, even ******* animals, prefer to deliberately wipe the soles of their shoes on each other, just so they don't have to help the other, even a little.

Air transport routes are only available to charter flights of the nouveau riche, since there is hardly any scurrying or customs inspection. Existence - like it or not - is becoming increasingly unstable, while everything else is doomed and contingent. They are constantly changing places, especially on the front of syrupy, false tabloid media, and more and more people are deliberately trying to position themselves, if they still can, of course. Words that falsify the edge of Being are already breaking down; because the light-pulsation of hearts is perhaps not sure to truly show itself even in the idyllic dawn of romanticism.

It would be good if the simple average person would regularly observe the sacred curvature of his life, with its swinging weight, in which he was born long ago, and in which he has learned to thrive - as he does - out of necessity. Without a net, on just one rope, it is necessary to move forward one step at a time, hopefully towards the West rather than the East. In a tense soul, even solid calm is increasingly flammable.

With their loose, jerky-hick performance movements, centaur terminators, well-molded by testosterone, are regularly galloping into their brand-new Ferraris, especially on Andrássy Avenue. A teenage lady wearing a deliberately provocative and transparent cocktail dress also offers predatory prey, who wants to be an adult at any cost, so that later she can easily assert herself even without an advanced level of maturity.

Horse pounding - nothing more - is now left for the carefree, pitiful lazy-indifferent posterity. In the distance, you can still see a cut-off Van Gogh sunflower head caught in hesitation, which exotic women no longer wear in their hair.

The witch's kitchen of meaningless promises and petty bargains stuffed into pockets that are starting to leak can hardly be enough for the simple average person to understand this two-faced, superficial era. And while some jury members start to publicly blatantly complain that it would be a good idea to save some journals as dubious intellectual products, so that primarily the ancients, and not the young people of the next donkey generations who are considered talented, can publish - the busy, slightly stupid wild geese are already getting into shape, and they can hardly wait to lick their ***** to a mirror shine.

Sooner or later, even the lives of swindlers shrink into dubious ends, just like the remnants of most superficial, posh glitter; because now the good friend walks with spring knives just like the old or occasional enemy. It is impossible to know what a piercing, deliberately suspicious eye, flashing from behind closed shutters or blinds, is thinking?! On the razor-sharp tracks of express trains that are constantly late or never arrive, the harsh judgments of false witnesses and prodigal children are still increasingly felt...

Bricks, building materials, have become lacking from the empty chasms of time; the Apocryphal thought symbol, thought solid for millennia - perhaps - has been permanently erased, swept under the rug, so that there would be no need to think or ask questions. Once upon a time, the essential things to say were engraved on baked clay tablets, which nothing could destroy: neither time nor memory. Now, halfway to this nameless, belittling Babylon, among the squirming linguistic confusions of Babels, they are less and less willing to even ask each other: Well, tell me!

What did you spend on palaces spinning on duck legs and monthly salaries of millions?! In a hundred-foot columned solitude, Simeon also blinked at the wide world spread out before his feet; sees and perhaps is not even very surprised if brother sells brother, thief sells thief, since there has long been no honor in outlaw honor.

All petty, ***** fake deals that have ever been made in the name of man, even by great powers made arrogant, are a crushing hesitation, a turning around; the halter of shaken everyday habits pulls its victims back and forth. They can hardly understand the shell-suffering that sprouts between the petals of the soul, because other - apparently - more important things also enjoy pure priority, because the sinking combined with the sure fall, which the treadle of everyday life itself gives birth to a slow turn.

It would be even better if the average person did not necessarily have to hate himself in the cheap-tinny calvary of everyday life - but at least he could lift himself up from the muddy swamps of the yellow earth with will and conviction. The outside world can now be less and less a true home-shelter, at most only a temporary refugee camp, where many people-crowds seemingly rest, and then even the patient but passing guest picks up their tent poles and moves on, driven by the forced prosperity of their inner homesickness and their Odyssey.

The deep blue night, awaited with stars, spreads its cloak over our shoulders. Everything can be a wasteland, perhaps there is no need for lost love with all its kisses. The moment carries the habitable Eden far away like a pearl; one becomes a naked shell if one does not heed its merciful word. A fist-tamped grain of dust has become the sin of mortality; the petty word of Life should be engraved on a bench with 10 nails. The cloudless afternoon was a fleeting shadow play; it would be good to unravel the expected threads that the past still holds along hidden memories. One should live wisely, because memory always buries a heavy seal deeper and deeper on those who are still fleeing.

How many times has the ragged hope rung, all memories have burned out. Among the friends who have disappeared to nowhere, there is not one who would stand by you; because the handles are not open, man's thoughts are still roaring seas; the moment, laced in foam, is stuck in the throats of whirlpools, the churning waves. Homeless souls crouch down and still eye the food of alley-smelling garbage cans.

Like the exile or the wandering stranger, their grave sins; man alone carries his burdens like a hunted beast, because it would be good to cling to hope; derailed screams cannot be deafened. Existence no longer plucks the strings of pain. In the nameless future, it would be good to preserve the eternal contrast of movements alongside the quiet peace, instead of the decided intentions, the speech of innocent victims.

It is increasingly difficult to get up, if we have fallen completely, it would be good to free ourselves from the petty shackles of lies, to the border points that always end through a black hole.

The tiles are all shattered like dubious omens. Ice nuts rattled between broken windows In Budapest, the little child who woke up from their dreams, just like the worrywart, should have cared more about the world; there are fewer and fewer rainbows because it can be great here on earth, it should have cared more about the world.

Clusters of stars tremble on the branches of the evening star, so let's leave the silent tunnels alone, the sacred valleys of our youth, winding return roads, no matter how you hear: you were unhappy, you never dared to count your life destined for eternity. You will look back in time when old age threatens your dove-gray head.

Why don't you ask yourself if you are happy?! because you can easily find out, you would only torment yourself; Man is unable to find what is permanently there, fool, or if you want to chew on your ******* fate, you are biting your nails, you are squirming uselessly. You see, your time is running out. It is time for the fool to be wise and not to say nonsense.

If by chance you want to believe, say that it is self-deception rather and you doubt that there is an even more beautiful road ahead of you, a more beautiful journey, you should listen soberly so that the word turns into stone in you, it would be good to warn yourself sometimes, you were only human. You cannot be to blame for failures, you promised yourself that you would not be a sucker. You felt on your skin that they were making you nothing. Today you still sow somersaults and reap a storm, you grin like a cheeky, rude elbow, because lies can never be comfort and you should not be played with.

Being little people, we search further and further along the road in the holy joys of small, petty rebellions; for which we do not yet have to pay in money, and which - so far - have not been deliberately stolen from us by a higher power. Despite innumerable taboos, they still drive the bleating herd of people out into the field on certain grounds, just let them scurry and chant until dawn to their heart's content. The human-smelling movements of existence are also regulated by new and new decrees, protocols, and forms that smell of paper and parchment, if necessary or not; a road builder, a bricklayer, or a baker rarely gives a certificate, but even so, quite a few times - it happens - they spit in the kneaded bread or roll dough.

And for some reason, even the common man may feel that the intention to change spatial location, or the cheap, easy option of going abroad would be less and less legitimate or fair play, since there too interest-relations make it necessary. Perhaps this is why man is now trying to filter himself from three directions: on the altars of deficiency-filling inhibitions and suspicious doubts, as well as on the catafalque of inner psychological Deficiencies - under the crumbling burdens of wavering inner balances, it cannot be such a good thing for the old fools.

As decades come and go, he carries the cheap, viscerally raw vision and image of the fall between the grinding gears of twitching nervous systems, even though he is only mortal and a speck of dust at the same time and believes that he has managed to conserve something after all. Because they can no longer love the three billion lonely Universe or call it their home, the dehumanized Nirvana-nothing descends and deliberately ***** it in all at once!

Perhaps it was all the same: the predictable certainty of the steps, like the aged footprints of old loves, which the ocean once drew in the sand. The past shattered shards of glass into smithereens. The weighty mass of scoldings, curse words, and nasty words can no longer be satisfaction or a legitimate retaliatory strike towards the sure redemptive forgiveness; because deep down in the confused, wounded Soul, the flower *** is already rattling into tiny pieces again, and there is no more worldly, massive glue that could fit more than a million pieces together.

Well, this is how Everything is formed; the cherishing, caressing voice of the Beloved no longer calls out from the echoing silence. Silence with an intermittent rhythm walks its rhythmless tightrope dances, because the kettle drum rhythm of the waning waves of the present also beats in the deaf ears. Why is it that every moment believed to be eternal has an unpredictable end and is hyperactive and restless?!

- The ever-drifting event of Nirvana-nothing seems to culminate crystal clear in the present minutes. The wolf-howl is accumulating in the manner of mini-atomic bombs ready to explode in the throats of screaming, ready-to-climb, ready-to-dive wolves. The clustered fear stretches to the shoulders, just like the Cassandra-scented ominousness.

Many-stringed screams hang, then ripen with a luscious, juicy pleasure, like a bunch or two of nectar-rich grapes. The massive-solid prison walls surrounding a person are increasingly hopeless, there is absolutely no escape from them.

Above our heads, nuclear mushroom clouds, - perhaps - tiny missiles are circling instead of clouds. The empty, indifferent footprints of promises have long since disintegrated. Perhaps everything and everyone is beginning to find their own truth simply by getting tired or simply giving up on the possibilities that are running out. The petty tumbles of doubts and failures gradually become whole; they are worn out by the millstone of Being, which grinds and clicks at the same time and finally grinds.

Good Samaritans are not certain to arrive in the pre-determined Times; anything can happen to those who ask for mercy or are robbed, just as anything can happen to those who are already there, who are always taking advantage of others. Yet everything works badly if neither sin, nor filth, nor bedbugs can touch them, since all that is needed is a small, necessary, foreseen detour to ensure that the path of development, believed to be stubborn, is still secured. The other day, we are already convulsing in more and more Gordian knots; we are wasting half days in traffic jams sniffing out mass-collision accidents, when and where?

And while even surface transport does not really want to move under a smoke - we are forced to swallow the mole-like silence of the underground metro tunnels, tolerating it, because we are constantly missing deadlines. The wings of the angel of the happy joys that can be found have been cut off by someone; a bleeding stump rises and while a fierce suspicion creeps behind us, we will all gradually run out of time in the post-history era. - It became increasingly difficult for bleating sheep to get used to the tolerated sheepishness!

The pondering brain is almost getting more and more tired as it tries to interpret and spell out the instinct-hieroglyphs engraved on the forehead; the total brainwashed chaos in which one has to exist has long been making one stupid and miserable. On the petty secret of Being - he fears - perhaps even then one cannot loosen either padlock or lock. The network of cells and molecules hides continuing secrets.

Where will the final accounting dreams sink to, which should have been said sooner or later?! Big worms in turned-out Gogol cloaks secretly devour small worms; like a sponge, a person is soaked so quickly and effectively by a concluded, petty bargain, a broken agreement, because - unfortunately - the unfriendly thorn is still more tenacious than a violet, halfway between thorns, it is not only the kitchen garden, where even the youth tasted honey nectar in the past, but even now it is deliberately shackled by superior powers.

Every person is locked to his fate, because nowhere can he find a universal key to open the shackles that could finally open its eternal seven-padlock lock; the unworthy, lazy calvary of a small person hangs, to which no one responds. - Even apparent, deceptive loyalty breaks a huge catafalque, if the person for whom it was always intended cannot be sure of his feelings.

One should believe that perhaps the final destination is still waiting for one, only its apparent resting places fall too far away; like a lost, homeless sparrow, like a kind of strange compass, some acquaintances or friends might still accompany one. It would be nice to cross the Glass Mountain, the spacious Óperencia, so that one knows with certainty that one will return! - Sooner or later, if we are not careful, we may all become dizzy in the gaping Nothingness!

Perhaps it would be better to finally break our evil-faced, evil-livered mirrors, so that they can finally see with wise hearts that see the soul, and not with eyes that can be deceived; perhaps the somersaults and blunders of the past will once and for all be broken and they will increasingly look towards the future. Today, one can rarely believe: the only blacksmith of blessed, profiteering blind luck is someone other than oneself - stepping on the flower pots of tomorrows, Existence also leaks away unspeakably, while only reason and sober thought rise above instinct molecules. Now, mourning birds, humiliated even in their pride, are wandering in frightened loops and circles; they may have long been accustomed to the storm, breakage, and suffering that the ugly life offers them. Halfway between the ominous and the deadly, the tempted danger escaped between them, the tortured, thirsty pleasure was injected into the love struggle of hearts as a temporary happiness-drunkenness.

Perhaps only from the depths of the soul can the ancient tower of silences, rattling on invisible chains, protest, rebel; a strange, worldly voice that loses its meaning. Like the frozen Eskimos forgotten here above the fragile hole, people also stare into their embezzled future, increasingly deprived of hope. Beyond Being, Time with closed eyes still yawns towards man, opens its Charybdis-mouth, while a death's-head moth flies by the lamplight and brings unwary others to the top...

The trembling body of virtues, already washed away, trampled, falls down, then lies down for good; they slowly sink into forced conditionals. Some unfriendly buildings tower over high-rise office buildings with broken dominance.

See you in captivity How many times have I wished, when I was a grass-boy, to creep into the actors' dressing rooms through the secret snail passages, like an invisible, otherworldly friendly ghost, a wandering spirit. It would have been nice then, disappointed and a little cheated, to step onto the spacious, creaking boards and, like Pious Yorick, Fastaff, or Graciano, with his head held high among the spectators, confessing the petty, naive, seemingly innocent, holy lies of everyday life.

Oh, in my mind I was greeted in Thalia's noble panopticon as an old returning guest who would only stay until he could see his favorite actress's face up close and wish her: "Big hat" - for her public appearance.

- A sly joke, a human gesture - the theater didn't do much, because money was always coming down the drain, and because an actor's hands were always tied! He sticks a drawn smile, a glued halo, angel wings on himself, so that the average person would always believe faithfully that Reality was just a kind of forgivable, idyllic appearance, a childish little nonsense. I could never understand how anyone could play a character and radically transform his or her mundaneness, behavior, etiquette and whatnot - why is it that after stepping off the boards that represent the world, the murderer would take over hubris-arrogance, haughty phlegm-excellence?!

"That was just a role, Dear Sir! I hope you understand!" - he replied. - I watched the sadness and restless hurt flow in my vulnerable soul and, like an orphaned child, I burst into tears in protest in one of the renovated restrooms, while outside the great play that deceived everyone was still going on!

When I had met them for the last time, I was forced to lie in the depths of wild, proliferating Christian bushes, like a thief fat sarcoma, but not to hit any more; The enforced, deeply hidden, brutal-backing age asked me to testify and obey several times. They had no idea that the last time would be.

Now, only I look at the bench-windows of the time, close-up doors that closed, rusted doors in the alarm, spiclishes-it would have been good, like an invisible, stray shadow only to disappear once more, to disappear in the alley of the streets ...

For the curse of the presence on the wall of the Commissioner is still shining, which, as a disease, was with me from the cursed childhood; Infections of the polarities that are tensioned with each other, the infections of the small atagonisms, can be almost cozy. "Certainly, because life is increasingly absurd, nonsense, uncertain, just like the free -thought intellect, which has an increasingly expandable border and endpoints."

Can the human soul be excluded from itself; you. that you want to stay less and less for adults?! Instead, he would choose the minutes of carefree, playful childhood, and a momentary joy: it would be good to climb a smaller hill so that one could at least see through our stone walls!

In the light years of living lives, they walked, hoped, and even believed in the so -called. the sacred law of intermediate priority; But whenever they traveled, the Golgotás's Gehenna's Chinese became a bit more and more disappointed, disappointed from the curses of swamps. Ten hangman-fingers shone in their weeds. Should the passage of times really only be accepted with insight, not to celebrate the counts as a holiday?!

As an irreparable sucker, they stagnate, even for a lifetime, even those who have been eternal children as a reward for playful curiosity and have not yet worshiped. Absolute adults thought as all -powerful power. He did and word, as if he is deprived of rights and weightless than the feather easily, but once he has a sifus lead weight, it falls under the waters of glazed stones.

Our time, even the smallest, is spinning, light laws, like a whirlwind back and forth; It is precisely useless to count the curvature of existence as a birthday candle. Because sooner or later, everyone will cheat on themselves if you can't take care of it anymore. Because nowadays there are so many fierce porchine, Komis-Bohaem Part-Faced Queen, who have been well known for a full-fledged manner because they have left themselves petty-kis style, and have been bribed by showbuisons.

Like a little kid, who is frightened of total silence and nights of the nights, and crying, and crying, because the little lamp of the nursery also paints horror, goblins, monsters in front of them - their doors, windows, gates are deliberately locked up, if they know,

Under the pressure of our soles, there are increasingly sacrificial heads, who we have ever met in divine, and when they were caught and trampled on, as well as fate, as they were surplus. Kuruttyol is so many gray-color pigeons above us, while in a careless, unfriendly moment, Guáno's blood is on our unsuspecting heads. The handful of survivors started on the road, but only on the ground of realities.

There are so many celebrity-thistles on TV as a beneficial, promising excuse on TV, while deliberately shattering about the most necessary things; Antantic ants are now wearing the sincere lie, like the fake of the conveyor belt, while crumpled, liver-spotted hands stroke the judas.

Time, though, is still moving, but in broken -winged ribs, the conscious sorrow has been building a nest for some time; Instincts and thoughts are already wrapped around themselves, as they cannot know the firm conviction from their selfish, petty shackles.

Fearful in the ninive, a big city of coastal can rarely be rescued; Rather, he just tolerates his guest visitors. It is as if the soon -to -be -collapsed card castles, massive cobblestones, were falling out of our lives.

Our nails are carried into meat, as the points of contact have long been gone; It is hardly possible to hold on to more and more cramped. The soul has already been desperate, because liberated silence cannot help anymore!

Whatever you managed to say in your life, it stuck on the surface of the yawning water mirror. Because you know that no one can remain a separate island, the shore of which could not be linked to loyalty, love, love, or at least the fragmentary, momentary appearance of happiness. You have to keep your petty, translucent secrets for thirty years. As a snow -white canvas, you imagine the whispering of double life, even though you will soon realize only a burnt -out poraroid.

The pathetic stumbling blocks of your childhood are mostly forgotten, which will then be taken for the rest of your life every day; Because you would deliberately melt yourself into your narrower treacherous environment so that you do not accidentally cover the one you have survived. His dream teeth are concealed by the stray dream, and what the dawn is as if you were deliberately forgetting that you still have to do it here.

Just ask yourself the recurring question: are you resigning to the current position of your stuff, or would you rather change, but you have no idea where you can go?! Somewhere inside, you can feel that for the rest of your life, you have to beg a lot of things at the expense of others, not to be taken seriously as an equal party, to find the ways of your unsteady answers.

The deepest rabbit cavity of the Earth is not spacious enough until you accept it and get used to the parameters of your own prepared, born-of-the-bed loneliness.

Accelerated, dynamic life is now forced to take on new and newer figures; Development or even modernization - in many cases - is going to go or one another. The self -evident, saying visceral truth, may not exist anymore, at most, there are only shame spots, which, as a small -style, pathetic army of feces, cover mainly the averages of a shipwreck.

Return attempts also learn a new destination, as they have long realized that it would be an indifferent irresponsibility to do anything else; Because utility is certainly demanding the quota of Mihasna.

Here we live in the holy rust -hobbered, rotten rust, where in most cases - almost everyone is betrayed, betrayed, sells, feni to their own teeth, if they want to participate in the negotiations, Armani's suit, Hugo Boss neck scarf and some Prada bags.

Because nowadays there is a smile break and blindness here in total brainwashing, and the average minority man is uneasy as if he were vaccinated on the sediment; And because every mall has a real squirrel circle for four -time design, devalued commodities, which, for the sake of diversity, were more cheap in China, and then came here, and while Pakson is deceived by a nuclear reactor heater. In the meantime, imported hybrid models are operated with cheap alkaline element actions manufactured in battery factories to see if gasoline is not expensive again.

The stupid luxury of souls will be realized once in a lease, but in the meantime, these few people would have to be assigned and cut!

There is hardly any noticing: the sensitive or intentionally tuna indifference, like an infectious disease, is becoming more and more comfortable, making it more at home for individual people to make the nature of a fundamentally indifferent, superficial, careless. Because between the two points they are not just yawning, looking into our eyes - but the distances believed to be impassable.

As if there was no departure or arrival, just the humilizable consciousness of the crook systems between the two endpoints, which, to say the least, has long promised that what we have begun may be much better than development or the only possible attraction. Because now we can feel the sacred harmonious tranquility of times in our molecules and cells in our molecules and cells.

In addition to the rose-sleeved mornings, we should count with the almighty pleasures of the rose-toe mornings to recall the cycle of life and the apocryphal interpretation of life; It is as if everyone and everyone secretly feel how finally it is, to say, the awareness of finite trace ...

There is a hesitant shadow on the movable corpses of existence; Therefore, it would be good to squeeze your Angel's dear Babuster's hand. The tiny diodes of the ever-restless brains are thinly stunned by an exhausted constellation, what could have been a more livable and happier life, if it happens!

Nowadays, modernization and the rate of development are intentional and at all times; It fells or just caught, spinning - falls out again as a black man. Because there is no way out of the dreadful bag -shaped, fat patch body; At least that's what you see without the zero empathy of the visceral, exhibitionist world. However, staying within the depths of the soul would be so good to drill and search for so many encrypted, apocryphal gateways, low-borne wormholes, even between the tilted taps.

Once used in flu grids, different give trendy-Sikk fashion, beauty, or lifestyle management tips; How should I exist in a nicer, livelier way?! Superficial benevolence is just a cheap, pathetic disaster packed in another shop window, from which the average is never profitable-it would only fit one of the uninhabited questions of forever: Do you still like to be miserable?

In addition to the misconceptions, they also possess the petty thoughts that have become brainwashed, because they think they can be better; Rather, they are in the same place, even when they do, because they believe in a given system, which - in general - is already saying who the ones who are in effect, even if this whole pathetic, rotten rotten hood is all together.

The fact that the average -perhaps -is a bit impossible and at the same time seemingly nonsense -absurd. Like the amphibian ants running around us, I was both guilty, and a deliberate desire for a shipwreck!

Now maybe you can speak calmly, wisely,  
We are still with each other now,  
Now you can confess with a very calm-heart that you have been unable to admit, undress, get rid of your perpetual pessimistic, petty, low-profile childhood, which has been organically in your life, even your instincts.

Now you can confess that in the tiring, vicinity, slightly pathetic life, you have come to you with a couple of true-heart wise friends and a helping acquaintance who may not have beaten and did not make a meaningful, lying-antle promise, laugh, or intentionally humiliated, Nor did it succeed.

Now you can recognize that you have never been able to pass through the medium concept of the coveted goldsmen and the Horatius formula of things and relationships or impose a pointless to others. In vain, you preached yourself to the metaphysics of certain "basic status".

Now you can calmly get bitter, mourn your little mice that: you dare to believe yourself, deceive your naive -child good faith, Yoricki's simplicity, if you encountered a superstitious, promising girl not just seeing the supermodible, You prefer to scrape the wall in your agony for letting things take a different direction.

Now you may admit that the price of gasoline 95 is rolling new record peaks and that the BUX has made a steep fall flight every time the diplomacy has been modified, and while the food prices are four times the tofu dough

To caress a man, like a stray dog ​​- I say - it is becoming more dangerous these days. You may first annoy yourself, either deliberately pulls you away or do not give you a ****** harm; And this - like it or not - was not only an alpine, ****, unethical act, but it may seem like it is attractive and impressive in liquid, brainwashed minds.

The hesitant pylons can be urinated just like the four -legged little pet can do it; True, they do not receive a fine or a fine at all because they could not pay tax. "Outside, they bark on each other, not only human masses, but also the little powers who, for selfish-mushy reasons, will be easily dusted anywhere, anywhere, anytime, and then there will be no lucky" intermediate zones ".

On the righteous, sinister chain, many chuckle-kicks are caring, overseeing Concise, prey, and does not want to understand that a petty chess character is only on the stage of history who can be easily trampled, paid or bribed; The bone coat of the bribed times is also chewed by the so-called. Serving Cerberus, of course, if there is, and there will be what everyday foods are available at four -time prices, and even the rubber bones that fit into toys are available.

At least for some, some more, that is what they are calculating, in the depths of their comprehensive souls, is now a total turmoil, unrelated, and does not back down for the sake of anyone.

A dangerously shrunken
Sififus world all,
cursed weight mountain as colon
puts on us, hanging on
over our body-soul up to
an iron hook or tweezers.

The average man
rather intentionally
closes toward yourself,
that even out of accident
nor can they recognize it,
don't have to
Others are curious-moss
he is finally revealed in his eyes.

The plans set,
petty, compromised
goals everywhere
rather closed doors,
Blind windows are welcomed,
for just certain
can be with key exclusions
Nowadays, anything to do now;
the mediocre kliss,
also
he is puzzled by one
*** kick, kicking,
or walking with muddy shoes
on cleaned situations.

The presence is old,
yellowed envelopes
certainly
harder to expand,
to see
The lack of care.

Steaming blade
next to the toilet
Even though it is so,
that for a thousand forints
It is only possible to let go of our *****;
black cat rushes over
from one corner to another
in his mouth maybe mouse,
or rat.

Between depth and height
halfway just just
a fading, thin
strip is visible,
which is getting easier
as a thin thread
You can break at any time.

As a dark bowle
El-Elgulul is still used,
over balding heads
guilt and shame petty,
pathetic alchemy.
Wasp
Tirgishada
chews on colonies;
between themselves the maps
they are also divided.

The tattooed brainwashed consciousness
- Fearful -, only rarely
may be responsible for better decisions.
Gross
The prison-smelling human soul!
The infinite emptiness
flawed spiral
Slowly consuming everything!

Today, it is increasingly intentionally split and cannot be. It is as if billions and one person feel that our mortal time will expire sooner than the originally allowed. He multiplies, and he first only manipulates his feelings, and he has created his smaller or larger gambling games, because now he will soon see more suspicious failures than the deserved misunderstood success.

Not only is a series of games decided in bred, brainwashed heads; Because control boards, if left, are less and less warning of their obligations that can be fulfilled. Mild stomach nerve stretches its string among the tremors of the soul, and the recent assault can be followed by the rest of the assured protection as a primary and perhaps still conditional.

- Nowadays, no noble or good thing can come from sediment masses; They will be shadows and feelings for themselves spicl. They dream of ants from scratch is increasingly detailed for Chinese loans, saying; Even the interest is intact that it is paying.

Another end-of-end length is not unnecessary, nonsensical wings, which the average person is less and less, and may not rarely cut it alive. Some of the concrete relationships are more likely to be silenced because they have guessed the more real essence. While you occupy your stunning fingers with a sense of lack and temporary happiness, and in the way of shipwrecks, they are a little bit like losing themselves!

You may even have trouble yourself, even if you crawl, unworthy, cherish thoughts that never come together enough; The dear angel scent, which makes you feel at the rose-fingered dawn, or a yellowed photo showing a forgotten wedding wedding in just as cozy shipwrecks as the rings of the trees that count on the constantly difficult collon weights of the past decades.

The unbearable lightness of life is shaking, not only on the broom of superstitious eyelashes, but also in the depths of the eternal childhood soul that we were deliberately did not show to others. With empty glue hands, like a disturbed thief, one gets drunk if he couldn't try enough luck. Grotesque mode is over and over again, and the endless time is finally cried back to missed minutes ...

The pigeon color dawn falls unexpectedly on us if you have to wake up to the still-stingy, coma body; His germination and instincts are even lined, perhaps they would like to wait for their destiny, if you could still watch the Book of Fate for us? The heart clock called the heart, like a pulled, timed bomb, threatens cataclysms at any moment, and it is not to reach the well -deserved retirement years. Cause and cause halfway away this way; It covers objects, petty gaps, cracks of cracks. The troubled mind is gone by the purposeless, meaningless clichés of reality: did it make any sense if you are unable to come out of your small alms paying?!

Even though you are struggling with sinners, the crowded universe is still lurking in your pockets, because you have long been in mind to ask others the big recurring questions: to make a bargain ease, everything else is a lie!

It would often be good to step out of the deliberate cover of blind spots, which humiliate anyone who is invisible to the average little man, so that there should be this perpetual eclipse in human heads. You should not be easily lost in the puffy soul. Now this is going on: small and medium -sized enterprises can be stuck at any time on each other's hanging tree just because the larger -smelling sharks will ride everything and everyone that is possible.

Cheap Judas golds in their expensive trousers, or just their latest sports cars; Alligators are so fierce to prey, waiting quietly. For them, just an unexpectedly bad time to live on to their liking; Failure trends are increasingly being taken to the wrong direction. You shouldn't go to the east - but where humanity remains, the little spark of humanity.

The silent news brother, of course, is, of course, as an additional scapegoat, is wrapped in a single air promise. Ten little fingers sure I say was shaking enough on the trigger. - The constant restless anxiety should always be observed in the depths of the inner walnut souls.

For years, every little man has been hesitant on the edge of the platform, as if only this could have been the only place for others to be in the number of people; As if the faces should not look elsewhere in just one direction. They were stuck with stunned beetles among the neon reflectors of existence. The petty thoughts close, as are the metro doors narrow and smoky tunnels in the dark depths!

Behind the apparent superficiality, the indifferent exhibitionist attitude, human epithelial layers are deployed as chitin armor not only on inner, more jealous emotions, but also for the rings of trust. Only tiny, almost insignificant, humble pests are continuing their work with a lovable, emphatic background noise. Halfway through the subconscious impersonality, the dramatic, silent tension is still gently overwhelmed.

The found, validation metaphor for happiness seems to be geller on the richter scaling of modern mass; Because nowadays, as a chameleon, anyone can change shapes and smooth it consciously into an increasingly worse, livelier environment. They say - at best - a spectacular amount as a peculiar unit of measurement for the purchase of the soul, and the three -step distance modification is increasingly valid.

In the capillaries, hardly visible to the eyes, doubt, sorrow, perhaps even pain; The doubt and pursuit to something noble, to the right, can give even a smaller extra incentive for cumbersome self -esteem, dignified dignity. Acceptance remains, though - no doubt - that it is not intentionally. You will be unnoticed inside and out of the outside, as the dog is not interested in what's going on inside!

We should be a liar in each case, for those who voted trust for craftsmen, just like the Mihasna, to be noble, to go to the goat cabbage?! Come on! It is covered by blind shadows, groping instead of humans, stumbling in the world!

Equipped movements, love testimonies, enforcement of fallen loopholes in the spinning time, the cities of Ninivei doomed to spin; The little benefits of trembling and acts. Do roaring blood clots still reach the heart's atrial wreaths safely so that the total infarction does not occur?! The youngest donkey generation seems to have been mistakenly manipulated, as they are threatened by lasting hind legs and wrinkles.

The multitude of mass people cross homeless gillists; From the bottom of the depths - fear - maybe there is no perfect way out. There are only tolerances and preparations in the hope of survival that can be sold. Mushroom clouds multiply from the nails of the nucleus of nucleus; Teenager diva are increasingly behaving childhood as if they no longer remember the memories of saraishes and babies.

contagious echoes yell at the deaf ears of the people; Promised benefits are deliberately thrown into the trash cans, saying, be satisfied with the minimal life you are currently. The world shows more and more visible apocryphal signs, and there are hardly any who understand. Portable conscious loneliness stifles his victims, - they have become a grin, and the old well -deserved laughter, which dissolves our inhibitions and may still be liberated.

The source of all the troubles was that the world was still a talmi, which could be easier to die! Halfway between the awake and the actual subconscious, it seemed as if the instinctive, instinctive hesitation ...

It would be good to know that you are guarding the coals, even under the rapid ash; Will, humility, humanity should not go to landfill or lose, just because the superficial, exhibitionist world is now to make ritual head washing in brainwashed monkeys. You should not leave yourself, just like the mass people who get on with each other, they are suspiciously suspicious of being on Lamburgini, Ferrari, or Porschs, mainly on the Andrássy Road of Paris.

Unfortunately, you know that noble intention to be improved nowadays is getting stuck more and more, like some efushed Robinson's shipwreck, and leaves more creative-creator thoughts on robbery chains, since only some more influential circular companies produce a profit profit. Goodness and purpose are now turning your back, because in dark moles, you are looking for labyrinths, and you are now unable to use the cheap use of practical survival: you sell or if you don't pay attention!

Even our naked soul preserves the tamed evening light of inner visions, because it never benefits. Ancient harmony and tranquility perhaps only on the ocean-party pearl Island, if you can find a man in the earthly paradise, where angels are happiness and enjoy the fullness of life.

Once upon a time, it would be good to throw away all the small -style Sififus terrestrial burdens from our anxious inwardlessness, and to keep that inner coals with loyalty to someone while possible. As a radar screen, sincere love is perceived by indoor echoso sounds, only the current modern man is scared of him precisely because he puts only cheap material things in the order of the emotions.

Whether it is a miserable monkey puppy on the tree, they kept the world and the future on their palms, "some" our idyllic, well -deserved dreams have long been sprinkled with salt and concrete, but the actual average should never be able to prevail, though it is a qualification and qualification.

They disappear in a long-standing holy silence, who once existed to flourish a library or a school, and to enrich existence with cultivated heads of people instead of taho-bowling. The walls would not only collapse as they were built, but newer ones grow up, like toxic spore mushrooms, because they might not be wondering, but as a livelihood, this is still done.

Echosating echo pregnant is not just a comfortable guilt, a temporary success, which is good to be redeemed for small money, and while coupon codes can give you some food, and you are paying for the cash register as a salary.

Nowadays, soul and consciousness rarely match; They both sink into a duplicate traitor to themselves, as they could be quite reckless that they still dared to trust and rely on either good friends or the dear angel. They also have timeless time the counted time, which we still have to spend here in the way of happy-sad eternal worrying children.