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A life violated, like a concoction or a legacy that should no longer be brought to light, for it is so secret-secret. Like stretched skin, the epithelial cells of our dead memories are piled up on top of each other: molecules, cells - the bent man degrades himself into a petty, opportunistic beggar. Everyone longs to know himself. His distant goals are long overdue, his cheap jelly has long since dried, stuck like glue.

Deliberate dread, fear is humiliated by self-harming prejudice. Hippo-clouded mirages sway the simple desires of busy life. Fooled by many with seductive promises of a future that ignorant, despicable saints can make worthy, heaps of career dreams. A forced desertion of blind, pathetic expectations awaits the common people, that they could not reveal, nor show the morality of their essence. They have had to endure, to bear, the fact that they can never turn their cherished, simple plans into nothing from angelic miracles.

They are a sign of delay when a job has fallen through. A correct stand may one day make sense. Until then, the dragon-smelling twilights of the days are carved into the skin like muddy blood scarlet. The echoing echoes of the silences persist. It cannot leave you in the midst of irritating, vibrating sound gates. Fearful - in this galadic Age, without greedy, well-heeled empires, the future will not work. The unnecessary propaganda of lies, the deliberate loss of lifestyle, overwhelms, numbs.

Existence is bought and sold by the kilo every day, and there is no other way to go about it: the living are treated to a bunch of loser fights, so that they can be better and more - in the courtyards of desolate, abandoned factory yards, the unemployment, thirsting for failure, blows a hangman's breeze. Unnoticed, the onion skins of the human self disappear, giving themselves over to destructive, judgmental debris...