FRAGMENTS OF SNAILS

Broken hearts wrapped in tinfoil or paper bags, locked behind seven-sealed big gates, when - if possible - roses can grow just like one-by-one blows from the Universe, just like snarling prickly thorns. On the solitude of the thorn-beaten walls, echoing sounds can still be heard if one listens hard enough. Questions and answers - many times - hang just like that, suspended in the existing air, in the crossfire of probing glances, like the bravest tightrope walkers who would force the passing to their knees if they could.

In the alleyway crust of the Soul, perhaps there always was-is-will be a tiny, sharp stone, which gives birth to spiral restlessness again and again, until one or the other person thinks that it is you. show color. Embittered, hawkish hearts have become so transparent, like sly informers or even betrayers of love. - Like scaly crusts, the petty secrets of a broken life cling to the timeless past. False refractions, or is it just the straitjacket of Existence forcing another wandering, restless Odyssey?!

The night that gives birth to nightmares will be an empty moon-chalice again; wandering from room to room until a misunderstood yawn signals only bedtime. - It would be so good to cling with both hands not only to the piles of meaningless promises, but also to the beam of budding angel looks. Earthquakes are incessantly threatening, not only in this current wretched Era, but also in the tangible clay of the instincts hidden secretly in cells and molecules; individual stimuli affect us viscerally. Often times, the attitude of defiant konoks is probably not enough anyway. The unprepared silence drips blue between two souls...