The deep blue night, awaited with stars, spreads its cloak over our shoulders. Everything can be a wasteland, perhaps there is no need for lost love with all its kisses. The moment carries the habitable Eden far away like a pearl; one becomes a naked shell if one does not heed its merciful word. A fist-tamped grain of dust has become the sin of mortality; the petty word of Life should be engraved on a bench with 10 nails. The cloudless afternoon was a fleeting shadow play; it would be good to unravel the expected threads that the past still holds along hidden memories. One should live wisely, because memory always buries a heavy seal deeper and deeper on those who are still fleeing.

How many times has the ragged hope rung, all memories have burned out. Among the friends who have disappeared to nowhere, there is not one who would stand by you; because the handles are not open, man's thoughts are still roaring seas; the moment, laced in foam, is stuck in the throats of whirlpools, the churning waves. Homeless souls crouch down and still eye the food of alley-smelling garbage cans.

Like the exile or the wandering stranger, their grave sins; man alone carries his burdens like a hunted beast, because it would be good to cling to hope; derailed screams cannot be deafened. Existence no longer plucks the strings of pain. In the nameless future, it would be good to preserve the eternal contrast of movements alongside the quiet peace, instead of the decided intentions, the speech of innocent victims.

It is increasingly difficult to get up, if we have fallen completely, it would be good to free ourselves from the petty shackles of lies, to the border points that always end through a black hole.

The tiles are all shattered like dubious omens. Ice nuts rattled between broken windows In Budapest, the little child who woke up from their dreams, just like the worrywart, should have cared more about the world; there are fewer and fewer rainbows because it can be great here on earth, it should have cared more about the world.

Clusters of stars tremble on the branches of the evening star, so let's leave the silent tunnels alone, the sacred valleys of our youth, winding return roads, no matter how you hear: you were unhappy, you never dared to count your life destined for eternity. You will look back in time when old age threatens your dove-gray head.

Why don't you ask yourself if you are happy?! because you can easily find out, you would only torment yourself; Man is unable to find what is permanently there, fool, or if you want to chew on your ******* fate, you are biting your nails, you are squirming uselessly. You see, your time is running out. It is time for the fool to be wise and not to say nonsense.

If by chance you want to believe, say that it is self-deception rather and you doubt that there is an even more beautiful road ahead of you, a more beautiful journey, you should listen soberly so that the word turns into stone in you, it would be good to warn yourself sometimes, you were only human. You cannot be to blame for failures, you promised yourself that you would not be a sucker. You felt on your skin that they were making you nothing. Today you still sow somersaults and reap a storm, you grin like a cheeky, rude elbow, because lies can never be comfort and you should not be played with.

Being little people, we search further and further along the road in the holy joys of small, petty rebellions; for which we do not yet have to pay in money, and which - so far - have not been deliberately stolen from us by a higher power. Despite innumerable taboos, they still drive the bleating herd of people out into the field on certain grounds, just let them scurry and chant until dawn to their heart's content. The human-smelling movements of existence are also regulated by new and new decrees, protocols, and forms that smell of paper and parchment, if necessary or not; a road builder, a bricklayer, or a baker rarely gives a certificate, but even so, quite a few times - it happens - they spit in the kneaded bread or roll dough.

And for some reason, even the common man may feel that the intention to change spatial location, or the cheap, easy option of going abroad would be less and less legitimate or fair play, since there too interest-relations make it necessary. Perhaps this is why man is now trying to filter himself from three directions: on the altars of deficiency-filling inhibitions and suspicious doubts, as well as on the catafalque of inner psychological Deficiencies - under the crumbling burdens of wavering inner balances, it cannot be such a good thing for the old fools.

As decades come and go, he carries the cheap, viscerally raw vision and image of the fall between the grinding gears of twitching nervous systems, even though he is only mortal and a speck of dust at the same time and believes that he has managed to conserve something after all. Because they can no longer love the three billion lonely Universe or call it their home, the dehumanized Nirvana-nothing descends and deliberately ***** it in all at once!

Perhaps it was all the same: the predictable certainty of the steps, like the aged footprints of old loves, which the ocean once drew in the sand. The past shattered shards of glass into smithereens. The weighty mass of scoldings, curse words, and nasty words can no longer be satisfaction or a legitimate retaliatory strike towards the sure redemptive forgiveness; because deep down in the confused, wounded Soul, the flower *** is already rattling into tiny pieces again, and there is no more worldly, massive glue that could fit more than a million pieces together.

Well, this is how Everything is formed; the cherishing, caressing voice of the Beloved no longer calls out from the echoing silence. Silence with an intermittent rhythm walks its rhythmless tightrope dances, because the kettle drum rhythm of the waning waves of the present also beats in the deaf ears. Why is it that every moment believed to be eternal has an unpredictable end and is hyperactive and restless?!

- The ever-drifting event of Nirvana-nothing seems to culminate crystal clear in the present minutes. The wolf-howl is accumulating in the manner of mini-atomic bombs ready to explode in the throats of screaming, ready-to-climb, ready-to-dive wolves. The clustered fear stretches to the shoulders, just like the Cassandra-scented ominousness.

Many-stringed screams hang, then ripen with a luscious, juicy pleasure, like a bunch or two of nectar-rich grapes. The massive-solid prison walls surrounding a person are increasingly hopeless, there is absolutely no escape from them.

Above our heads, nuclear mushroom clouds, - perhaps - tiny missiles are circling instead of clouds. The empty, indifferent footprints of promises have long since disintegrated. Perhaps everything and everyone is beginning to find their own truth simply by getting tired or simply giving up on the possibilities that are running out. The petty tumbles of doubts and failures gradually become whole; they are worn out by the millstone of Being, which grinds and clicks at the same time and finally grinds.

Good Samaritans are not certain to arrive in the pre-determined Times; anything can happen to those who ask for mercy or are robbed, just as anything can happen to those who are already there, who are always taking advantage of others. Yet everything works badly if neither sin, nor filth, nor bedbugs can touch them, since all that is needed is a small, necessary, foreseen detour to ensure that the path of development, believed to be stubborn, is still secured. The other day, we are already convulsing in more and more Gordian knots; we are wasting half days in traffic jams sniffing out mass-collision accidents, when and where?

And while even surface transport does not really want to move under a smoke - we are forced to swallow the mole-like silence of the underground metro tunnels, tolerating it, because we are constantly missing deadlines. The wings of the angel of the happy joys that can be found have been cut off by someone; a bleeding stump rises and while a fierce suspicion creeps behind us, we will all gradually run out of time in the post-history era. - It became increasingly difficult for bleating sheep to get used to the tolerated sheepishness!

The pondering brain is almost getting more and more tired as it tries to interpret and spell out the instinct-hieroglyphs engraved on the forehead; the total brainwashed chaos in which one has to exist has long been making one stupid and miserable. On the petty secret of Being - he fears - perhaps even then one cannot loosen either padlock or lock. The network of cells and molecules hides continuing secrets.

Where will the final accounting dreams sink to, which should have been said sooner or later?! Big worms in turned-out Gogol cloaks secretly devour small worms; like a sponge, a person is soaked so quickly and effectively by a concluded, petty bargain, a broken agreement, because - unfortunately - the unfriendly thorn is still more tenacious than a violet, halfway between thorns, it is not only the kitchen garden, where even the youth tasted honey nectar in the past, but even now it is deliberately shackled by superior powers.

Every person is locked to his fate, because nowhere can he find a universal key to open the shackles that could finally open its eternal seven-padlock lock; the unworthy, lazy calvary of a small person hangs, to which no one responds. - Even apparent, deceptive loyalty breaks a huge catafalque, if the person for whom it was always intended cannot be sure of his feelings.

One should believe that perhaps the final destination is still waiting for one, only its apparent resting places fall too far away; like a lost, homeless sparrow, like a kind of strange compass, some acquaintances or friends might still accompany one. It would be nice to cross the Glass Mountain, the spacious Óperencia, so that one knows with certainty that one will return! - Sooner or later, if we are not careful, we may all become dizzy in the gaping Nothingness!

Perhaps it would be better to finally break our evil-faced, evil-livered mirrors, so that they can finally see with wise hearts that see the soul, and not with eyes that can be deceived; perhaps the somersaults and blunders of the past will once and for all be broken and they will increasingly look towards the future. Today, one can rarely believe: the only blacksmith of blessed, profiteering blind luck is someone other than oneself - stepping on the flower pots of tomorrows, Existence also leaks away unspeakably, while only reason and sober thought rise above instinct molecules. Now, mourning birds, humiliated even in their pride, are wandering in frightened loops and circles; they may have long been accustomed to the storm, breakage, and suffering that the ugly life offers them. Halfway between the ominous and the deadly, the tempted danger escaped between them, the tortured, thirsty pleasure was injected into the love struggle of hearts as a temporary happiness-drunkenness.

Perhaps only from the depths of the soul can the ancient tower of silences, rattling on invisible chains, protest, rebel; a strange, worldly voice that loses its meaning. Like the frozen Eskimos forgotten here above the fragile hole, people also stare into their embezzled future, increasingly deprived of hope. Beyond Being, Time with closed eyes still yawns towards man, opens its Charybdis-mouth, while a death's-head moth flies by the lamplight and brings unwary others to the top...

The trembling body of virtues, already washed away, trampled, falls down, then lies down for good; they slowly sink into forced conditionals. Some unfriendly buildings tower over high-rise office buildings with broken dominance.