BOTTOM-MADE GLOW

Today, Man is hiding in himself, deprived of his existence every day, and even more miserable. He constantly imagines luxurious dreams that cannot come true, and he scratches his head when he is fired from his job without reason. You can only rarely weave moonlight into a cherished blanket. Going round and round on his way to his goal of never reaching his goal was all that was left, pity and permanent panic-mode, and it depends, like so many other things.

It doesn't matter how many zeroes there are at the end of payments and savings; in the end, nothing is sacred any more, Existence suddenly empties itself into the permanent margin of Absence, and as useful prisoners, the perishable organism lawfully breaks down the existing, visceral flesh. He doesn't even notice, maybe he doesn't even care: his acquaintances and friends live their lives overseas or up in the ice palaces of the far north. Wouldn't it be better to run away from your subconscious problems?! We don't know for sure.

If he looks at himself, he only knows the long-delayed answers: no matter where he goes, he would hardly set foot anywhere where two-legged people live, beyond his paltry materialistic capital. Life - even involuntarily - keeps pulling and nipping mercilessly, while surrealist gangs bark night and morning and faithfully support the new nonsense propaganda, according to which: "A fence bought from a loan can be made of sausage!" - The old tomorrows circle playfully, until the inner appearance is held captive. Only one hesitant step remains among the many. Dusks smelling of urine, dishwashing liquid, howl in Kassák fashion, because the wolf-throated World is drenched in a shower of apparitions!