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.