Constraints

 
It's no longer the arrival that worries me, but the homesickness of getting on the road. The certainty of a good decision, hidden away for years, that starting something was still easier and more comfortable than leaving my things aside. Even so, there was no lack of complaints in the stumbles and failures of stumbles: they will get back on their feet and be solved again.

The need for completeness will hardly be truncated any longer, at most it will be a little more nuanced and complex. - Many times I would have preferred to cry: enough! - Let all those who still have a human spark left in them and have not given their heads to evil doings apologise! What was the use, then, of bribed hypocrisy, of spiked criticism of public humiliations? Instead of the soaring flights of private mirth, all would have been well in the consolation of all!

The arrowing, wounded pain of common injuries can never be forgotten once too often. A rare parade of kitsch of love seems to tower over those who have run more than once. Tearful modesty was once a disgrace. Random glances of light reveal at once the cosmic scar of wounds. From foreign perspectives, of course, the map-mix of familiar grimaces seems strange.

The time of calculated fear often caught me by the scruff of the neck early on. Over-zealous quality controllers curiously look back on life as an old black-and-white film. There is no place in hell-sawmaking big business for apologetic, hard-working pretty-boys any more. I'm beginning to count myself down to the looming Death. The power of my thin but judgmental words this deaf and characterless World will not hear! All truth has become a stench of celandine. The people of Nineveh have disgusted me too soon!