It would be so good - just for a few moments - to wrap myself around the shell-solitude, which at the same time provides a mild consolation. Perhaps there would be less hypertensive pressure in the cages of my chest, which urges its infractuent volcanic eruptions. It would be good - at least just once - to see the One-Beloved building a sandcastle on the beach with the children.

One should puppeteer into the silence of the inner Soul, whatever acquaintances or disguised friends say, so that the primordial vibration, which is at once related to and supportive of the Universe, can still maintain itself. An eternally thirsty, wounded desert-number would still say what I should hold back from time to time; "some" are chasing their fleeing dreams, while they are once again engaging in increasingly shallow, two-faced bargains. Nowadays, a person would do better not to open their beating heart to just anyone, and rather remain deliberately inaccessible, because the innermost dissolution can only truly happen if, squeezed out of Space and Time, the soul sheds its last, visceral earthly covering and recognizes its inner nature.

It would be nice if a few caring helping hands could find owners for the objects that have become like dogs crouching in the doorways of downtown sikátor. Signs are scratched under the pores of the skin by the holy longings of loves believed to be immortal, the temporary intoxication-addictions of unearthly and cosmic floating between kisses, in which one would have to dissolve and be redeemed at the same time, so that a person can still feel after 40 that he has not been squeezed out. from the secret weddings of the spiral circles, and that he is not totally alone.

In my vigils beyond dreams, the memories of happier idylls that have happened still accompany me honestly and faithfully.

An unstoppable ancient cyclone should hold man's dreams accountable, an eternal flame if the soul, already restless to the core, wanted to flicker; perhaps no one and nothing has time to wait with dignity, and await the order of the final tests. The Janus shadow of sleeping jellyfish creeps through our rusty coils, when man can no longer possess the ability to make his active shrinking, hazelnut-brain remember - afraid - perhaps it will be swallowed up by the insidious vibration-wave of self-destructive waves.

Spread fingers can no longer, tremblingly, embrace the loyalty of the Universe, to which they once swore with the word of the heart according to the laws of mortals. The small, frayed erosion of the body has been lurking helplessly for thirty or so years and does not ask, it only acts. Behind the person's back, old love-intoxications, eternal friendships guarded with fear, when everything seemed crystal clear and perhaps even simpler than it does now, still glow like a fading ember; the continuously drifting Time simultaneously wears, carves, shapes and if the person foolishly does not pay attention at all, what could never have been born is destroyed, that the attractive ara - at that time - did not want a sweetly babbling baby because of her bikini line.

As a mortal - even so -, he has cheated himself a lot, because he has been constantly sobered by the fierce series of judgment days; if necessary, if not for the last time, the merciless, brutal whip of Reality can strike him at any time. A restless, storm-beaten soul cannot rest in peace and quiet; It must dismantle itself, as a supposedly solid cell-molecule, which is being squeezed with increasingly ruthless executioner-like rigidity by the fetters of the body's diseases.

Amidst created worries, troubles and troubles, as if I were falling into a gaping abyss, half-balancing on the edge of animals, hyena-scavengers, like a shaky-legged, slightly hesitant, underestimated tightrope walker, - I can deliberately hold on or not in the draft of depravity. In the purgatory of an endless rail, as if I were one of those Bosch could have painted in his lifetime; a gathering of hell-shaped soul-shadow visions ready to rage.

It would be nice to hide back at least sometimes in some strange, sprawling Hawaiian wilderness, where crystal-clear, raw-visceral emotions can also manifest themselves more emphatically, more faithfully to themselves. A middle-aged rose withers and withers in the filth of big cities, because there was no one left to console her instead of her selfish strawman-peddler husband; because even hook-nosed prophets fall for whales, after devouring even the smallest tadpole embryos.

Forever chained as mere passengers in spiral circles, because that is how people are now, intentionally tied to the work methods of unbearable, unfulfillable working hours, petty-gallant deadlines. Because now it seems that washerwomen and hostess models are once again selling their commodity love for tinkling silver coins, until another incomprehensible, twisted property division lawsuit comes; "Daddy and Mommy really love you children! You just know that Mommy and Daddy can't stand each other anymore!"

They would rather drown each other in a spoonful of water, if they could do that!" - Thus, the slow, conscious disillusionment can still remain. Among the calculated, manipulative genres of attempts and cheap escapes, there is certainly no one left who would actually understand their job and act as their heart commands?! - A casual party queen or a diva imitating luxury is handing out slaps with stamps stuck on guest masks.

I must fall alone on the harmful, wretched waste of everyday life, like a constantly shrinking, bloated, bloated dwarf; because not only the petty, predictable pair of opposites of goodness and evil has become a mysterious jungle - but the fist of bribery is hitting me in the head, since the star of the Universe that promises peace may not even be reachable. Like a shipwrecked ship, the petal-soul is constantly orphaned in it, which once wanted to trust in the One.

A flood of disastrous sins will trample me to the ground if I am not careful. Human-bloods struggling for ends are screaming and shouting around me, tearing apart the secret chalice of selfless helping intentions to their heart's content, dragon-angry crowds-herds are drunkenly going to each other's laps, or are fighting. Who is in the mood for what?! The eternal child, always curious and ready to play, who I cannot forget and would never intend to let go, is still bent over in me, still sheepish.

Is it necessary to crumble at the table of vigils, like millstones in the night burdened with nightmares?! I listen in silence to the beaks with iron hooks that cut life, in the mouths of half-darkness they were still forced to snap like cutting scissors; let the moonscape-loneliness be petty, let it be selfish, since they were at once primitive, unbridled restless wanderers, whom Zhivágoy winds, Jericho trumpets have torn, flayed, and whined enough.

Even a believer in rainbow-foamy promises, I can no longer be completely happy. On the thin, rabbit-tail-sized border of a passing minute and eternity, it would be good for the sick, arrhythmic heart to know and feel when the judgment of mortality is preparing for its last supper, the one-Someone might still know here on this earth!

Tamable wolves are raging outside like a mob of people; a storm-hurricane roars like this when the immense horde-mass starts. A storm of art - not so much anymore - so that only a few on-duty Celeb-stars can become really big altar-jerking *******, whom the next generation of cyber-*** will look up to as worthy role models. Beauty contest, Anna-ball, but for what?! The good-sounding promise-speech flows from a jug, so that an employed model-presenter can always do well, since he hardly knows anything else.

Because "some" have to be barefoot to march even the length of a street towards success and a certain dubious fame. The exhibitionist overheatedness of voluntary, but still publicly humiliating, naked undressings is necessary so that a tabloid channel that is already doomed to die can still produce the sufficient number of viewers. Because every futile existence here is now torn in two and the simple man, tearing his hair out, can no longer decide what would be better?

To go or to stay in this wasteland doomed to Nirvana?! Among the fluffy roots that were already intended, that which could not even be born yet. The introverted consciousness that does not lie to itself cannot be a virtue now, but rather a conscious mistake. It would be good if superficial faces would not only suggest manipulable duplicity - but would redeem reality with a little sincerity and the pearly waters of tears. Why do we now have to to listen to what and how the wolf pack of the troubled city night is howling, completely out of its senses?!

Man goes through his existence walking on the edge of nothingness, while his bones are cracking viscerally; his humiliation from slave to slave is now constantly ripening, since he has long been the petty plaything of worms and maggots. Now he would rather practice walking in place a little more stubbornly, the tactics of the guest-passenger, stripped to the bone, are straining against each other, a writhing swarm of beetles is stopping his running, because a rubbing interest would decimate, lick the big whole, from which the average person certainly gets less.

Belittled, low-lying ants fight in a noisy concert quite often, because whoever begs for a warning, calls for help or hopes is now a suspect element; This current vile Age plants dust-scattering arguments in the ranks of corruptible souls, because everything and everyone is accompanied by the fever of possession for a lifetime, the depths of the underworldly filth often disgust even those who try to tolerate the filth.

In tendered dog nests, they would tender the juicy marrow bone, which the average person can never receive, and cannot win, as some kind of deserved, simplified honorarium, or pleasing compensation, rootlessly, to the detriment of life and other accounts, and a few hearty slaps are due to those who speak up and humble themselves for remaining European and human.

And while the canings are increasing in number, they immediately ******* the homeless who are begging and begging, they have to struggle sleeplessly, like a miserable *****, with the uncertain hurricane tide raging to the point of unknown, with storks' nests, not just a whistling nickel samovar that will last another hundred years - but a century of nuclear mushroom clouds!

Happiness and perhaps even the joy we thought was certain can only blink in isolation, because nowadays everything is superficial, manipulative, can increasingly deceive, can intentionally deceive and even deceive, a plastic, unpredictable tachycardia infarction can trigger alarm signals. Nowadays, almost everything is heralding the little kingdoms of ambitious people: everyone would like to seize treasures, deals, or even unstable, fleeting reputations for themselves.

Perhaps it would be better to palliate the compromised, sufficiently stubborn counterargument, unbaked slanderous sermons, unfortunately, it is increasingly easier to plant them in souls, where there are already enough weeds growing, because everyone only dares to scratch the truer, more secret depths of existence, because they do not dare to go against the truth, honesty at all.

A few well-sounding awards, false-lying congratulations, merits would flatter the inner self - if only they could -, but a handful of the pure chemical accumulates in the human being, to cleanse the burdens of petty sins like the waters of Lethe. Halfway between the daridos of blind slanders and half-truths, rust eats away at the counterarguments that are not lazy to think; the little worm from Alamus keeps gnawing away not only inside, but also in the outside world; because the wild crowd of jerks and jerks is deliberately going around blindly and like a gang of brainwashed idiots, following a false idol leader.

Because sometimes it is better if one switches to the hard-working mole-like mode and chews oneself out of the annual rings of infected promises and meaningless false words. Because the problem is still that every worm believes itself to be a winner at the same time, when it realizes that it has already pitifully swallowed everything. Behind the scenes - even so - it often happens that there may even be time to hunt each other!

It is necessary to march blindly, panting, even stumbling lamely, like a limp, beaten dog, still here on this earth into uncertain, gloomy tomorrows. My blind, easily manipulated soul trembles at the same time, half-heartedly, lamely, because now again, more and more, seven-trial rascals, no-man's-land thieves, new Szeleburdish petty-knights of reproach are rubbing themselves to their liking, some of whom the Present makes brainwashed and infected and some are merely disordered memories.

Once again, common sense has been trampled into the mud, everything beneath it is suspicious-false, because there is no longer a chance for a sincere true word, nor for a trust that firmly questions itself. Now, even a few sheep have been raised to be sufficiently humble, herded, so as not to bite a few privileged ones. The dreamy macaw no longer murmurs a dignified yes under its botoxed catfish mouth, because first the new husband should show his checking cards and his occasional merchant wealth, which he has collected with stamps.

Now the permanent filth is still accumulating and flowing down below, like sewage laden with feces. No matter how many times that secret, inner voice speaks back in the secret cave systems of the soul, the rusting cogwheel brain would in vain grasp what it is that it can still surely lose; because secretly - perhaps - it has long been robbed of human dignity, not to mention other rights.

Error and blind faith nowadays simultaneously justify a cheater, an assassin, a robber, while the simple man would perhaps be better off hiding in the gaping pits of Dante. A person would like to be ready for a sure escape for a long time; As a wandering earthly wanderer, he would perform his selfish, begging round dances for Existence, but who can beg for his life at the same time?!

You are not and can now be totally independent; a vile, tiny worm is making its way into your flesh, like some infectious disease, a desperate, hypocritical attempt to change anything in a dignified way, a completely meaningless, pitiful series of wild instincts that have lost their wings; sooner or later, with quiet indifference, the crumbly lump that obstructs the network of blood vessels with its heavy Sisyphean rocks will just fall off your heart, so that you can prolong your life for at least twenty or thirty seconds.

Every minute, the permanent, indestructible Maya veil of transience floats over your head. Timelessness makes life uninteresting, which cannot be started anew every single day, because secretly everything remains a reflex of your selfish body, an everyday simultaneous. Like a faded, lifeless donkey skin, the pores of your skin also feel the template, the cancer of superficial exhibitionism.

As if not only the Hangman's death, but also the consciousness of loneliness, that you can count on no one but yourself, has been breathing down your neck for a thin life. Knee pain, torturing hemorrhoids, a hearty cholesterol bomb that have taken over your life; from the medium of Time that separates you, perhaps a helping hand will bend down to you, to help you up early, because a gray, old eternal child looks back at you from shop windows.

From the echoing darkness of the underworld, some secret, inner fall will begin, which perhaps only you yourself can understand; existence itself is a jungle, a withered Nirvana-desert, a riddle, which it would be good to finally solve, so that you can know and understand what your task and business is here!