Acrid-game

Stone me! Yell at my busa head. Rush boldly to your doom, - what is being done today cannot be argument enough, complaint cannot stand, even if the old, degenerate democracy must be given time. It binds man in fetters, like a wolf to a wolf, a bargained prostitute to a pimp - with a vigilant traitorous consciousness, mixed with a treacherous persistence, which ripens constant, petty cat-and-mouse warfare, and therefore the imagined, dreamed future is always uncertain, and sufficiently fallible.

It absorbs all the false feelings slathered in a smear of sincerity, devours all the hyena-mosquito, killer-orc, narrow business lines: guns and daggers that always only take money for services - boasting of new career promises and perhaps therefore more horrible, more likely to kill than if it did so itself. 

Those who, as loyal servants, end up as collateral losers, as cogs to be gnawed on. And he who is smuggled out as a living corpse from the grinding wheels of existence cannot fail to be thankful that he will faithfully preserve what is his. 

There can hardly be a man who hasn't given in to something today: a forgotten cheque or a six-figure sum for a piece of paper. Or a dream job that belonged to someone else. A logic chained by a chain of strange, obvious questions flourishes like a weed's television screen. 

The secret motto of the brainwashed is tattooed on the brain: "Survive at all costs!" - And if you're a goose, you'd better be a fat one. - This earthly anguish swells up in me, that as a diligent herald I was forced to endure with clenched teeth; among the blind spots of complex memories, not a single living person could remain to bear witness without me!