Pubic-minutes

The monotonous, clattering noise of our clocks. Replaying in turn on the soul's countdown to mortality the trusting moments thought lost. Again we hold on to something when human goodwill greets us, or words of praise knock an email. It's all so obvious now, personal out and in. To appeal to financial support and patronage is one with exploitable, influential opportunities. 

One's clever, thinking mind turns from hysterical to a raging, rude beast. Where great worldly honours have finally failed, the pile of questions can become nothing. From whom can he expect help and redemptive pardon?! - A greedy, concocted brute - in a career bed he hates himself until he finally hits everyone like a brute. 

Our treasury of impressionable memories is still full. The careerist daily builds or destroys ant-lives to save his own competencies; he cannot find his redemptive, harmonious place if he has sold his restless soul. Gangs of conmen and thieves are running wild, for none can stand the stress of tension or stress dancing on eggshells. 

For those suffering from time claustrophobia, Time attacks and infects from two directions, spreading silently: at first only under the eyes; softly whispered, croaking crow's feet, then a grotesque frown creases the pits of two half-heart-shaped lips. Signalling that existence should never be played with recklessly, defying our fate as avengers, our fate as believers. Meltingly clicked, monotonous, cacophonous seconds often reveal more than dialogues of lie-mongering, cheap looks!