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    Every road is at the same time a pitiful mouse-path, an internal escape to another, perhaps more unknown, more uncertain shelter... And you can see swarms of rats swarming under the pillars of the Erzsébet Bridge, which have begun to rust. Well, what about you?! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves, usurpers, greedy, for breaking into Life like this?!

    The big yellow cheese-smelling Moon up there was also blinded. You sit up in the cotton candy sky as if you have nothing else to do but deliberately make fun of people who have lied to themselves. Its twisted, flickering light no longer casts tiger-nest shadows on the solitary cells of the rooms. All my friends, with whom I once had a connection, have left and moved abroad.

    And nowadays there are hardly even eight people in whom Loyalty is not dead, eight for whom the good old trust still shines in a handshake and an honest word! After all, the only way to get by here right now is to go hungry. After all, it is only the infected hypocrite Céda-Rend, the pretending of gestures, on impaled Hangman's skewers, watching in the deepening pits of souls.

    With our bare, naked body, as it melts into the haunting moonlight of the night, becoming one with our terrifying, petty fears, which we don't even dare to tell the psychologist for double slip payments.

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