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!