Like someone caught in the act

The survival of everyday life between Life and Death consciously ripens in itself like a dark brown seed. Those who are constantly preparing for a long trip should not drag out the already expensive Time.

From wall to wall you can already hear the morbid calvary of the heart turning inward. I silently listen to the silence inside, while my face is stained red by the gnawing shame that you. many people made promises, vows, but rarely, even one, could keep his word!

I should learn to believe in hypocrite miracles again. It seemed to lurk trembling through my tears: the alchemy of my wasted memories.

I'm going to fall - I feel it - and then again, just like the aging, old rickety Sisyphus. They would already be playing in my ears on silk drums if I left them to teasing fox-demons. My dreams always sink unwaveringly into the depths, because they were never able to rise above the captivity of my unworthy, pitiful cesspools.

The broken world is Time, and it disappears among the terrified statements of consciousness. Herds of roaring macho machos deliberately hunt down the best of our unconscious beauty queen females. And even if there is self-delusion, sooner or later the date you've been given will be lost anyway.

It would be nice to slip into the skin of moonlight-sucking babies again. When everyone and everything was clean and spotless and spotless, and even if an eccentric child made a mistake, they were not reprimanded mercilessly, or they already read the pitiful mark of being beaten on their heads.

The soul always throws out the glowing fire of its sadness, when even Being has been burned to the bone!