STILL IN A WIND STORM

The sky is now still crystal balls, and the holy silence and humility of flowers correspond to it. Yellow lilies are replaced by hyacinths, where killer wasps and innocent bees swarm on pollen stirred up in tiny boats. Icarus suddenly gallops out of the shining Cyclops sun; with his broken wax wing, he would still try to keep himself in the air, but the worsening gravity would immediately crush him under it. It will almost certainly be the only, warning example of the lasting moment before the fall.

The total derailment of railway stations, when it is no longer necessary to search for petty criminals or those responsible. Come on, why?! Because the inner trembling of the human soul is hardly visible to the naked eye. On the faces, you can feel the deliberate phlegmatic indifference of Central and Eastern Europe. A pint of memory - I'm sure - is not enough if anyone is to finally understand the deliberately overcomplicated Gordian knot connections; the personality wriggles in emptiness and permanent lack, just like the stripped-down, Adam-costumed wreck of character, at least what may have remained of it.

A strange, bizarre immobility still pulsates in the heatwave nonsense air; as if the musty carrion smell of an alley brings with it a revealing slyness to the African breeze steam, which they forgot to whisper when reporting to the Meterology Service under the immediately forgivable burden of dismissal. Now it may seem that many people would rather slide off into the long-lasting musty-smelling distance; everyone has a radical cold of long-term inactivity.

It is no longer necessary for the real Reality to intentionally break into our visionary dreams like a thief, since it is increasingly obvious that nothing has been in order here for quite a long time, and that instead of the responsibility of others, more and more straw-heads will fall to the ground ingloriously!