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.