How should you live your life better?! More than eight hours of your time is spent on the teeth-gnashing torment of general, but unrewarding work, of which – not much – is the overhead, and your pension is not sure to last you for the rest of your life. Three hours are spent just explaining to your kind of mouthy, adored wife with prehistoric methods why you can't go on vacation to the Maldives or the Seychelles even three or four times, because due to restrictions, even the free beaches of Lake Balaton have been largely closed to the simple, poorer classes of people. You tear your hair out like a petty, notorious neurotic, who – perhaps – is no longer sickened by a system, but by the many petty, bribeable puppet-men and puppet-deals, due to which this whole mess of filth is managed as a whole.

It might be a shame to replay the memories of petty physiological situational slaps and falls; otherwise you wouldn't get much out of it. Your beloved love suddenly announces: She's had enough of you, and that you've turned into a vile, worthless *******, unfortunately through no fault of your own, since there were layoffs at the multinational company where you've already spent about fifteen or twenty years.

How are you supposed to live your life better?! You don't even know, because in the meantime, your aorta seemed to burst due to an almost fatal heart attack, and your coronary arteries could use a lot of heavy and massive repair. You might still dare to act, but not only your life-walls, but also your Me-Time are being closed in a vile and wicked way, mainly by celebrities who constantly only understand the permanent sensation-*******, and of course they are paid handsomely.

Your youngest daughter mostly doesn't even want to know you anymore, because if you don't pull the ******* yoke of misery, and while you're in line for some baked goods in a supermarket, your daughter demands Barbie and a Frozen doll, and even a little mini-tyrant character will torture you until you can't take it anymore and at the end of your exhausted day you buy her the toy doll. What could your pitifully wasted life be for, when all you wanted was a little independent peace and a deck chair near the shade of your quince tree; and when your little daughter becomes a bride, you, like an old, toddling old man, ask yourself: ,,What did all those incomprehensible, melancholy decades of yours go for?!

It would often be easier, like blind Theiresias, to decipher, by scribbling on Braille paper, what the truer sincerity of the inner Soul hides in secret, encrypted. Why is it necessary nowadays to ***** more and more, even for the impossible; the nimbus of our understanding, logical intellect can surely be trapped in labyrinthine traps? It would be much better to approach the uncertain fate simply as a "tabula rasa" than as a good friend, because a trust-based relationship - no matter how much we might want it - rarely results from petty, petty conflicts.

What would have happened if Adam and Eve had decided to ignore the flattering, honey-glazed speeches of the serpent and had finally remained in the paradise conditions of the Garden of Eden, which proclaimed harmony?! - It may now seem increasingly that many unnecessary factors and solid data are continuously obstructing the communication channel that leads to understanding and actual compromise; instead of discovered loopholes and obligatory gibberish, it would have been better if they had embarked on the path of convincing compromise, and not hopelessly running after apparent possibilities offered on trays.

The world now looks like a lonely, unstable, volatile volcano ready to erupt. above; our quickly cleaned shame stains remain just like that even after the lyeing or hippoing nicknamed permanent. It seems that the dog no longer even thinks about the early fading Future; the mere will and humility have become a rusting mill wheel, with which the mass-people of changing Ages dig the pits of their selfish graves. Who could want – only in their own way – to listen with understanding ears to the testimony of inner, bursting wounds?! In deliberately deaf Ages, a nuclearly calculated mushroom cloud produces defenseless victims!

The eternal-child soul may one day grow up to the ennobled tragedies of fate; it will be blinded by the lack of Nothing that nests in the subconscious, because only one chance is possible for the pairs of proportions. In the meantime, as the periods of life history alternated more and more shallowly, the desire for certain falls became insoluble again. The foaming waves of oceans also lost their sails, because man cannot find the Odyssey of homesickness only in death. One day man will understand why it is necessary for him to still post faithfully in temporary circumstances on the bands of the lowest boundlessness, so that his time does not run out early, the promised fruits of the small Sisyphean weights without space and time can only grow and be created around the house of others.

Why can't the human word find a suitable analogy for the inner, more hidden soul?! Because there is only one possible answer to completeness, just like the fillable Universe?! Today's digitally underdeveloped age deliberately lacks the reliable monotony of paced, rhythmic slowness; even in the beating, feeling heart, there is a total lack of emptiness if it is unable to decipher and interpret the belittling feedback of a given microenvironment. The feelings of the duplicated Self are often consciously covered up by the personality that shows the surface.

- They put their self-identity to sleep, or wake it up from its dreams. Because Being, a little beyond death, finally rests on the branch of Nothingness!

The budding romantic morning of summer, like a colorful veil, is now torn into tiger stripes; the musty-smelling darkness of Sikátor is unraveling from itself in strands. Man would like to throw off not only his nightmares, like a worn, worn, worn-out coat, but also the germs of human-smelling, two-faced evil. Like a thick, impassable door, which can lead to who knows where - all the sinful sins of infinity close on us unnoticed. that we have become mortal, and our immortal soul cannot be completely independent, free, locked in the cage of our body. Even now, above every dream-career, a rubbed, greedy, petty condor vulture circles, feasting on the remains of mooching prey. It would be good if we could strip our inner souls of finite sadness, like the secret anatomy of sorrow, because inside – often barely noticeable – a firm barking that wants to whine how loudly roars.

Man always dies a little in his Sisyphean selfishness, he can never fully understand the helpless absurdities of filling up. Hour by hour, not only conscious small-mindedness grows, but also the universally expanded fear of failure and success, according to which: no one can be good enough either for himself or for the great, hypocritical World. In crypt faces, increasingly vile, evil grotesque grins look at witnesses, hypocritical prophets, like grimaces.

The selfishness of the world first necessarily consumes, but also surprisingly often buries its defenseless victims, who would still have clung to something. Wrapped up in petty sermons of words, like pupae, people mostly betray and betray themselves first. Fewer and fewer people can take an understanding look at the precise evidence of corruption!

Sleepless Times, which can conspire at any time even in the tamed land of dreams – if they so choose. Signs of the past should be nursed, who carry the pain of stigma wounds unnoticed. Like the children who were made to sit in silent silence or were scolded, who could not get gummy bears, Playstations, or anything else – now, as if the dawning morning light involuntarily humiliates a person deeper and deeper... Like the tiny ants, a person can also increasingly – if you are not careful – break into broken mosaic pieces, which nothing, not even the laws of the Universe, can put back together;

The secret worldly materials of humanity and spirit can no longer be realized by the balancing desire for certain instinctual satisfaction. Unsuspecting, they cross so many belittling, forbidden thresholds, because they are sufficiently careless, unwary, and involuntarily violate the inner silence of the secret circles of the soul. On the fate-woven veil of Being, a stray, clinging cobweb thread often tips over; the secret mood melancholy of joy and sorrow, just like the secret pendulum of moods, changes every second, like the devil's spasm. Because the eternal Nothing can still be lost by the crumbling Lack, because it lacks the secret umbilical cord that once organically chained its defenseless, lonely victims to Life!

The fragments of memory, like the potsherds, can break at any time; first only the found, yet hesitant movement falls apart, then the hug, or perhaps the handshake. We reserve the pitiful entrance to our cold, cheap, petty secrets – at least for now – for the competent love who would bring the One-Dear!

Ever since man has been conscious, he has been aware of it a little: here, it seems as if everything has suddenly ceased to exist, has been ruined, has been destroyed, as if there is no way to go anywhere or escape from here, because the whole big World is totally ruined. Nothing is and cannot be in rock-solid order anymore. It is as if not only the cells, organs, but also the driving springs of the internal body responsible for digestion, which also operate the heart acting as a pump, are deliberately becoming heavier.

And already – without a doubt – the tiny vibrations of the soul still move themselves faithfully, perhaps the dog no longer even pays attention to them. The inner longing torments the man's guts more and more; to go or to remain still for a few more ownerless, uninhabited decades, until we are no longer forty but fifty or sixty years old, and the piles of feces of our dreams and plans intended for realization dissolve into old men.

There is rarely a way out of the tingling grip of enormous lead weights, because sooner or later, one way or another, one must necessarily perish unworthy among the mists of gray, mortal dawn. The latent Lack grafted into Nothingness can still be held to an infinite account, because it would always interrupt, cut off the conscious realization to which man would generally still cling. Should we be left to rot, so that the eternal-childish fear and anxiety boil halfway?!

A touching tide of phrases of nauseating, nauseating speeches; that how much easier it would be if I-Time could be somehow expanded, although it is universally known that it is all in vain, because a single day only has 24 hours, and because there are many people for whom even 36 hours are becoming less and less!

In every age, this rigid falling flight stretched to the point of invisibility, into which a person involuntarily, inescapably clings out of necessity, because he can hardly do anything else. Belittling, selfish wasps lurk, dipping their stingers deep into your skin, in your built life, which you have scraped for yourself; you yourself rarely notice that you have become a decoy, who can continue to be led, deceived.

Out there, a crowd of brainwashed idiots, like fevered moles who have lost their minds, are constantly digging tunnels of dubious, pitiful careers, because they think that there is greater success, where one can lick some people's *****, but in vain, because a lying larval silence clings to their already ***** souls.

Because in livable life, the balance, which is already unstable and indifferent to the core, is increasingly tipping, namely, who is pulling which way and where?! Why do we have to stumble up and down endless eternities amidst constant tugs?! The un-understood wound is breaking into fragments of uncertain, doubtful tomorrows.

The selfish stigma-sins of fearful coincidences can hardly be heard by the ear of a simple person anymore; Now it has become more and more customary that retirement is just a privilege, and can only be given, and whoever, forty-something years later, still wants to recover from the anxieties of a stormy childhood with any dignity, would be better off going to Hell, so that they can at least warm up and not freeze to death for lack of fuel. This is how pre-planned desires, instinctively calculated plans, and objectives become old men with stomachaches, urinary stones, and toddlers. They doze off with their livable lives out of necessity!