The dizziness of the lifelong receded yet; my anxiety of being is all raging! In me, mortality is ash-gray and the idea of ceda is constantly frightening! My years seemed to fall fast and I have to leave this land! Mile treasures to sweep beneath me pile up: fragmented leaves of petals - I should be a living tree in a dying ray of fire and not cry out my uncommon selfish pity! Sadness bribes and as a volcano, there are hardly any pleasures in existence!
 
My blind moles-nights are lit by cheering skies even more so the spike of despair is stabbing me more and more! Perhaps you, as a lone Robinson, have seagull sighs and the grains of sand in the bribed Nihil deserts; and why is there an earthly voice that cannot answer to the immortal Universe, when you already feel: the great He is standing by you ?! Your inner adventure can't end this way either!
 
Your flaming presence holds in itself! - Caressing the stigma of pain and fear of creation! You can imagine the veil of Maya being torn off and he sees back with bitter lust on the Edenic altars of earthly immortals: you could be immersed in vain in the starry Infinite! Fearfully keeping his secret in the black chasm-deep; crystal gems of dried salts will burn in your mouth, even as your prison you will be locked in your snail shell forever! You may know for yourself: your insatiable restlessness generates thrombosis bombs in the catacombs of your heart.

We should now tighten the gauntlet of marcona, thundering courage. All of us, like the blindfolded blind, are deliberately stuck in the gaping gloom.

Who would work in the pissy dawn of day, can't the unfortunate - God forbid - reach the meagre farthing for a pittance. Treading, among crawling roots, among underworldly terrors. On us every petty, telltale movement is now tightened.

And so the community called civilized, sluggishly dull and stagnant. Our lives, if we hang in the swamp of indifference in the air of tesped uncertainty as unworthy victims, hanging silently until the next tweaked relief.

Yet we feel our yarrow-life bliss among the hidden career beds, camouflaged ceda-romantics - making us Ariadne's thread of Existence the thudding beats of our hesitant hearts.

The greed for money demands our clarity, ever more violently. We might as well dream the American dream if we could - let us not yet stake our only life on these coveted, pink syrupy, temporary dreams.

It is not good for something to be right or final merely for material gain. Above the sinking souls there must be a winged angel to redeem and protect the light that shines with fragmentary light.

We do not deliberately ask for spikes of power that can be hurled at us. Let the gains of treachery be left to those for whom everything and everyone was but a petty plaything, and who are now all sons and servants of No Man! In defence of the feared Existence, it would be well to look within ourselves one last time!