HAMLET EXISTENCE

Rain washed grapes easily dry up the mist. Even now, the hidden memories of our past float long above the surface. A tear-streaked, truth-telling, holy gaze; a tender swan-face and a romantic flame that fills the delight of the universe, flirting with immortality. - Staring into the hollow stalactite light, the wolf eyes, who opens the gates of his heart and fears not - but is steadfast in the face of danger: with Hamletish gestures he takes the upper hand and cannot let himself be caught or even be bitten. 

In a secluded rogue's corner, he huddles alone: our pitiful, half-orphaned, childish selves, who after all these years are still ourselves. We can all feel ourselves perched on the merry-go-round of time, as if to totally rip ourselves out of a street-length metaphor of being, only to spiral off into an endless new version; a sparkling merry-go-round. - Their stripped-down, half-naked careers are also a frenzied, calculating burst of ambition and adulation - because every conscious moment that connects us to the recipe for sole survival is now simultaneously awakened and digested by our brain coils, the extracted waste material. Is it necessary for two hearts to float like a shadow, unconscious and meaningless, cosmically distant from each other, and to endure the tragedies of fate that the coming decade will inflict on them?! 

From our bloodshot eyes may volcanic romance burst forth, if our trust in each other is not shattered. In anxiety, in haste, we can hardly find a moment's peace: we cling to the cryptic sonatas of echoes - this time, perhaps for good, and for the last time - to feel sure that somewhere, sometime, our other self is thinking of us!