IN A SURREALIST DREAM

 
A familiar, suffocating mass of uneventfulness drastically overwhelms everything. It's chewy, stretchy, and chewy, which sticks everywhere. Compromising betrayal is already rotting on the creaky donkey ladders of careers. Visceral career desires could not even wish for profit and prosperity. You see brainwashed punks and Indian heads everywhere. Even the pledge of an uncertain future. You can't even follow the simplified connections of simple, bare existence from the self-showing, screeching noise.

A new, trampled, more brutal measure of enforcement could soon develop. "I can no longer believe in anyone's selfless benevolence!" I used to have enough to do with the camps of those who betray themselves with a calm heart. At a single honest emotional point of intersection, which is still humanly acceptable in changing situations, in petty risks, I cannot accept frivolous assignments, promised hints, just in case my wasted life can be straightened out once more. Every human moment or gesture, which the tachycardic, wounded heart once considered vital - now everything is all formless smoke-forms, defiant resistance.

The futile effort of the twitching Icarusian wings reaches everyone, when the unknown goal-perspectives that seemed far away surround you closer and closer to the subconscious recesses of the personality; now be stubborn and brave! Never give up on yourself! - Over there, a knight of fortune, another career-hunting starving man modestly holds his octopus claw towards you, suggesting a favorable wind. If you fall to the ground of your own accord - because you can't do anything else - you know what awaits you!