Who is hard at heart, or never at peace in the name of compulsive games as the whispers of the left index finger, like the convict, the son of man has been branded, except that the fussy, ragged life is still a serious matter. Man's compromised hope was also lied to from the heavens, like the diamond-bright stars, in order to somehow fill the emptiness of the great lack at any cost.

Because somehow all of them have been forced to hide the deep abyss intentions of their own selfish and greedy plunder in secret and perhaps under me. some of them are even capable of squealing out of their own skin at any time and pretending to be something other than what they really are. They are the total opposites of a relatively impracticable, agreed-upon lifestyle and social arrangement.

Only the long-lasting loneliness could not ask for absolving grace from the agonizing, mind-blowing solitude; even among the memories of the past that open wounds, a lasting, agreed reconciliation can now seem more and more difficult. - With unreserved half-solutions - he is afraid - it is difficult to cross the dimensional gates of the inner soul, which do not just open to anyone.

With interchangeable Janus faces - in many cases - like sheep led to the slaughterhouse, snarling beasts stare at each other, worms and traitors at the same time, because they could hardly do anything else. In the shelters of sleepless nights, it would be nice to have a predictable, protective hug that is unique and inimitable. Everything seems to sink relatively uselessly into the squinting silence...

I want to write something
that lives beyond me.

Something that brings joy
to someone I'll never see.

Something that has wings
to traverse time and space.

Words of rhyme that kindle love
in a formerly loveless place.

Just a line, or phrase
where someone will say-

to a dear friend,
I read this today.

A poem by some old poet,
I don't recall his name.

But I found it to be beautiful,
and it touched me,
All the same.

They already say - not only the wiser ones - if they still exist here on this Earth, that we will surely fall a lot, my friends! Even Existence will become more and more expensive, and as soon as one or the other willful moles-mums are kicked out of good-sounding jobs, where it is exceptionally not necessary to work thirty-six hours straight, the state of permanent-total weightlessness will still be in half of our lives, if it happens.

It's as if the external and internal gravity has completely disappeared, since deeper psychological and subconscious forces are at work there, even if anyone has any conscience left to do it. Because those who already step inside, they wander by themselves looking for a way out through a life left behind.

It is no longer possible for the creative person to simply put his head down to creative, feasible ideas, since the so-called about filthy-***** financial sources, sponsors, and producers who, with little brains, are even willing to finance a private project - of course with a fat, twisted profit -.

This is how the synthetic, uncertain Future devours and inhales its unsuspecting victims in seconds. My false metronome keeps clicking in the ears of people who are hard of hearing, and even now they don't really understand which decision or answer would be easier: to survive this *******, confused Whole, or to hide in your tiny holes and mouseholes, maybe everything is easier there?!

The last, ending fatigue almost deliberately wears down, withers, and determines almost everyone. The great Nothingness of the single, finite minute-moment, just like a sloppy lighter will - maybe - extinguish itself now, just like a stray matchstick...

It is unnecessary to take back the polite right of self-indulgence - he is afraid. In vain! Amaga reduced to cordivat is proper, good manners, etiquette. And although - supposedly - the code of conduct is still in full force in some places; if one catches a brainless wild fowl **** for a change, it is better not to engage in intellectual and literary ramblings, but to simply move on with measured English.

There are more than a dozen businessmen-oligarchs, but there are only very, very few patrons who support culture, and they don't support just anyone, only those who can turn over their capital with a huge profit. People believed that everything of value, the golden mean, and humanity would one day find a way to the heart, to a well-considered, rational mind, but in reality we are once again at the point where everyone is playing against each other, playing the rules of the game that were still thought to be solid, and throwing a fit easily at certain mementos, to emotions belonging to humanity.

Because the tiny pieces of the given existence - if true, if not - are even now more and more consistently defining the unfinished facts of the smooth Present. Because the things that have happened at this moment are a bit clichéd together with the have-nots, which would still have been nice to implement in one way or another.

On the ribbon of the infinite world, they exchange messages that can be amplified to the point of pettiness, because they have long since forgotten what honesty can mean, when a stray teardrop unexpectedly falls on no man's land, and uncaring palms catch the trembling half-chest. It would be nice to follow one or two more rules, so that people know exactly, feel that even though they are stumbling in one place in the Hyena World, they are still there, and that crazy point of reference exists!

The more and more difficult and difficult to survive decades have already turned into clouds. Like pigeon guano on the windowsills, which cannot be picked up once and for all, or scraped off. Only one thing is certain here: if a curious bird, reluctant to stare - be it a raven, magpie, or tern - takes off with a light, almost airy movement between the far-seeing cotton-wool continents of the horizon, sooner or later it will look out for the more unfortunate and stupider human son and once and for all drops his stink bombs.

Because human life shrunk down to an ant-millimeter can be worth this much, while pigeons, ravens, and Tandori's favorite sparrows are also feathers clinging to the ground. - Surely the immortal happy ones are still hiding somewhere at some point, who fully enjoy the fruits of the Garden of Eden of Being, and they have no idea to ask anyone why the other is miserable, why he has degraded and lowered his own selfish standard of living and is therefore so grumpy?!

Scared - the thin Reality can hardly hold the considered formulas of dreams, ideas, instincts and desires anymore, from which it becomes consciously clear that each person still existed as a separate, eccentric-stubborn island on this mud-ball, and paid the price with interest for it, if he stayed true to himself because he became a Judas-traitor to others, then they could read the petty, small-scale judgment of his failure enough times chased, humiliated on his head.

Out there, in the urban festive whirlwind that has hibernated to ice, it's as if a constantly humming, buzzing beehive is singing: "Buy anything now, because it's worth paying for later!" - And the cat-and-mouse game of chance between each other goes on and on with petty, squealing pleasure, until - unfortunately, in most cases - the average person loses anyway. That is why game theory is much more a it is determined by blind luck, like anything else, and that in the crowded, posh casinos in Monte Carlo, you cannot see the sunlight, so that they can create a deliberate eternity, an inner stressing restlessness.

And while high-world, hysterical checkers-queens parade one after another on the red carpet in the whirlwind of their big evenings, where - as you know - only success, fame, lowly assertion, pushy intent are the latest trendy chic - they can hardly notice them in the alleys of street corners in cardboard box cities survivors, or that sooty-faced little angel who sells bouquets of flowers during shivering minuses!