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  • For stretcher

    Watch out for the downtrodden, humiliated victims. I am stunned beyond amazement. Fallen, snarling crypt-faces stare dumbfounded from the trench-slashed faces. The warming, acrid smell of urine pools around their feet.

    It's as if a repeated fact or situation spirals over and over again. There is no way to escape from it. I peer out of my eyes into the murmuring fog-filled landscape. I wonder if they see and sense in themselves the unbearable probability of their oppressed existence.

    The recluse-prophet also looks into his future with tired but still curious child's eyes. A distracted, creaking obsession unfurls brainwashed thoughts. Stupidity has taken up permanent residence. Who poisonous seeds are scattered by the propaganda media.

    The subterranean state of dull darkness has persisted on solid, unbreakable ground for ever longer.

    In each other's words and deeds some would carve the murderer's knife, if they could pretend that survival at all times was the goal to be achieved. The will of mystery, if it vibrate in the distant air. Now is the time to act without delay.

    Surely it is no longer good to look grimly, like bitter old men, into tomorrow uncertain of purpose. Sea-turning, gallant hostile storms have often carved my flesh. Can no man know whither the journey begun, the whole series of trials, may lead?

    At the dawn of my middle age I sin with streaming tears. Who shall wail and who shall threaten me when the wheel of time shall grind me to dust?!


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