PROFANE SPELLING

I still have a crested, Mohican-roar drumming and straining inside me; as if I were a bird's wing that is about to fly away for good and never come back. I would touch the golden heart of the One-Dear One - if I could - and call out the angel's spell from Time: "Stay by my side even when good luck, sincere friendship, or physical health leaves you!" - Don't speak if you don't have to - but feel in the apocryphal paths of secret telepathies, how much more should have been talked about and confessed in the echoing voice of wounded lives.

Although now it may seem more and more that we are just floundering in our useless Time of Everything; neither memory nor the Present can console us for the wasted minutes, which we squandered because we believed that the beneficial poppy-slavery of a feeling might await us forever. A nightmarish cloud-shadow still flows back from the tactless Reality, which keeps calling its unsuspecting victims,

There is no certainty - at most only the Odyssey of eternal journey, farewell, farewell. After all, now all stray assumptions can be ruled out: Being cannot be fulfilled, only if it becomes Whole again after so many shipwrecked years of chasing, and the hidden empathy-tolerances awaken in the inner self, not just the sympathy of desires. Because Fates,

Destinies burn just like that, calling out not only to this century, but also to Man himself: eternal values ​​can be awakened even among delayed generations. And Man can only receive silence as a wise guide, from which his compass is always incomplete.