Dropped footprints

      
     In the eyes of a little boy, one who pays close attention can see within himself the pieces of his carrying, wearing edges; he would cling to the memories of thick, cotton-hugged hugs against the everyday sunburn of strangers, jerk phlegm, if he could be more karakan-recovered! Dark shadow makeup imprisons the eye-craters of honest faces; you can already feel the otherworldly state of lasting collapse if your melancholy sadness promises to be lasting! - In vain! You can only remain a lost forest walker, an eccentric marmot in a self-incense world, as if everyone: jampec men, fashionable canary angels, are all prostituting themselves in the hope of survival, which is a guarantee of appearance, which one can stay smarter and more refined?!
      
     Today, the valid distinction between People is back in vogue: Prosperity, privileges distracted from luxury, computer-lying smiles despised as concances in soft puddle views! Exotic mask shadows are floating on their faces forever, and it is not known: where might the superior childish self have looked, who watched the games from the background all the time?! The sure path is becoming more and more inexperienced, and those who can't stand washing their faces in animal feeders or serve false interests - as a puppet in a shop window, can soon be overtaken by the forbidden fate of precipitations! The dwindling middle class is also becoming stagnant; is lazy when it comes to the holy time of deeds and actions long ago! When will our footprints dropped on the streets, in throbbing heartbeats, lead us back to ourselves?