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    I sought my refuge so convulsively. I was tired of the poison that left me alone and tormented me. Judgment and words seethed inside me like a glowing no-man's land like a volcano. I'm still alive, although my days are gradually ruined, my fear of the future and monotony make it harmful. Like the color blind, who can rarely see a woman's lips, or a wavy, multicolored rainbow, I am forced to balance my will on a needle and rope, and in my battered heart, memories and thoughts are rather crusted over, giving their place to the connections of the manhood hidden in the depths!

    V.I.P.-evenings, Don Perinon, a tricked-out band army of snooping peeps flashes its fangs, envy and malice at the same time, if it takes five minutes of visibility to become nationally famous, this earthly, drinking Styx covers almost everything with its sediment.

    It is often better to hold on to nameless cries than the endless chains of unfaithful promises. My slipped shadow can only stay by my side, as my only loyal traitor, who only leaves when the pink finger of dawn approaches. – Chaos, as an apocalyptic mess, can never be beautiful or gracious. - Crowing crows swear in a croaking tone on the branches of uninhabited trees that have grown bone-daggers, waiting to pass away.

    In the reflector ring of lights, the Pit of Being expands and deepens at the same time, like the anxiety of an orphan left behind in the hoarse cry of a mother-born baby: the time of redeeming, angelic hope gets dirty early, like a puddle of tar and mud collected on the stones of a wet street. The severed umbilical cord, which once tied all its nerves to this earth, suddenly always broke. I am myself - I will be!

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