In the window-sized, mini World, it seems as if the city with the smell of Nineveh is only visible in spots. As if everyone is already organically recognizable; the Apocryphal sigh has carved secret signs in the cracks of faces, as if the beginning and end have all flowed into one big puddle. Reality has long ago devoured the entire showcase of illusions and pretense, while in the epicenter of petty, nauseating exhibitionisms, it always becomes second fiddle, who wants to stay organically out of things.

Because now it seems as if the fearful eternity is cutting deeper and deeper spiral circles for itself, man can also be a freed prisoner only in the crumbs of everyday garbage heaps, and no rain-speaking Angel embraces the shipwrecked souls with his protective wings; the Executioner-Time pulverizes them with words, because the time of reckoning has come. Even escape squeezes its compromised victims into a vacuum of decades, since - in many cases - it is hardly possible to hide or flee anywhere.

This is a cruel lesson, a silent game, visions of lead ore torture the still crouched, selfish moments of the living unnoticed; sluggish memories, tamed childhood magics keep vigil waiting for further prey. Character, human humanity, falls into small pieces, just like a tower built of shaky building blocks. It would often be better to urinate into the wind, just in case the cold shower doesn't come so unexpectedly.

We deliberately suppress our whining voice left over from childhood; we don't have to face the fact that we didn't grab the starvation-wage life annuity in addition to pension insurance. Even so, there is less and less money in our accounts, and something trickles in here and there.