Tattered trifles

Blind cell-phone-sluts, fake romantics flirting with the tablet, settling in basement apartments. The secret, moral trust, the camaraderie long gone. Now there's a treacherous, turncoat duel of interests. In darkness, in syrupy shelters, the holy halo of hidden lanterns of light flickers but flickers. Of mutilated words, of sincere shower-showers, Fewer and fewer now are the hail-horns to be heard and heard.

The existence of gravitational waves is scarcely believed any more, since the earth has become spherical and thus saturated. The subcultural, consumerist man of the 21st century, as a re-statistised animal species, is searching, lurking and searching for new prey! The pearl fishermen of the soul are unable to exist and assert themselves on the paving stones of the wild cattle.

The glow of a glimmering, secretly bursting, protesting meteoric clamour is harder and harder to praise. The engraving of proud few able to stand up and say No to the preachings of big fishy, petty oligarchs. It is a bigger problem that the possibility of darkness is nowadays more and more often being nurtured: bred from within and perpetuated.

Even so, no amount of blind eye can buy them any more time. Crumpled in a fetal position, on calcified faces crumbling like cheap plaster, the tender pleasure of caresses. In neatly darkened labyrinths hide, lurking live-keepers, limp survivors.

In the mutilated sunlight the garbed, truncated room bathes trembling; Time always accumulates like a slag, like a scar that begins to fester! - It would be good to walk along the hidden surfaces of existence; to carefully insert the yellowed mosaics of missing postcards into torn, trivial trifles...