The falling twilight of arches still breaks through the balcony of the dusks; a few orphaned beams of light drift, the barks of dusks crackle on the branches of the trees - even the former loving hearts are shackled by the wedding songs of the birds. Rushing contacts strain against each other, until even the beginnings that were thought to be planned end in total breakups.

The established form and movement, which once seemed so homely, become formless. In our wakefulness, we listen to the talking shadows whispering greetings, sneaking unnoticed here and there; with a butterfly soul, it is perhaps increasingly difficult to truly get to know someone, because it does not let itself be deterred by superficial exhibitionist frills.

- The conscious dream of insignificance seems to have long been an integral part of the calvary of our everyday lives. For the petty Odyssey of ever new futility is also the homesickness of longing, which once belonged to every man. The garden of despised silences is watered with tears of childish sadness; one should not possess the power of inexorable surrenders - but one should understand their meaning.

Truth-telling honesty maneuvers in a boat among inescapable mistakes and perhaps even itself cannot know how it should learn from its mistakes and the set of its failures... For it is known: every Shadow of Times is only an empty phrase-dream, if it cannot be realized tangibly. We must increasingly uncertainly maneuver ourselves through the turbulent waves-murmurs of existence. - It is not certain that it is possible to cling to the uncertainty of seasons. The compulsion of reality has also become inexplicable; in the discovery of ourselves on journeys, homesickness is just as tense!