The backward, witnessing Man always looks backwards tasting the burger-glass of his cuddly history. Preparing to set out to create a new Columbus life somewhere else, but his compass of aching homesickness keeps pulling him back.
He knows that when something is finally finished and the characters and statistics say goodbye to each other, Reality becomes bitter and sour. To start a new theme is sometimes pointless, when repetition, as an easy cure, is often better; he arranges past stories into a picture, as a secret figure of certain death.
How much easier, surely, it would be if one could read a text from doodle-lines. It would be fitting to be connected to something very high, organically. Clinging to the bench of his comfort, his happy unconscious gullibility sits on his tesze-tosha and daily allows himself to be eviscerated, to be exploited for his invested trust. It gives up its trust, offered to it in a sluggish, irredeemable way, and lets the stars turn and fall on its face again.
The pathetic fairy tales are also becoming more and more colourful: they contain more promises and embellishments. Through the hell of every day, the echoing voices are becoming more and more coruscating. No one has ever got anywhere on hopping rabbit's feet! As a measurable, countdown moment, the Month must be possessed in every inch of its being as a snare of biting teeth.
With unnerving chemical smells, the vigil reaches an immediate crisis and stock market crashes are signaled by Trojan horse swallowed computers unsuspectingly. Without restraint it is irresponsible to let in the loving Universe!