RECORDABLE ME-TIME

A fearful smile can no longer protect the symmetrical features of the face, nor the curses of the barrier erected by word-barricades, or even prison walls; the syrupy darkness brings you to your knees, perhaps just like the dirty night of the alley. Stars lie near children's cries and there is no one who wants to hug them.

The pearls of truth are already hiding deeper and deeper in the depths of wounded hearts, where it is not easy to get in if trust has been broken or has just become a traitor. The montage-like progression of existence seems to flow in reverse, backwards; the dear barely eats breakfast. She barely weighs fifty kilos, and she prefers to gnaw on paleo diet bran flakes when she looks in the mirror to make herself look slim and sexy forever.

"Sweetheart, Dear! You are beautiful on the inside too! Do you believe me?!" - the conscious remnants of fasting hunger regularly crash into the experiential magic of the Moments of Everything; the protrusion of the baskets of ribs can be dangerously worrying. With a ruddy adolescent face smeared with grinning angel skin, I stare into the errant Present, and it would be so good to at least guess, that those for whom I voted humane and loyal-noble will help me and will always be by my side in real, big trouble.

When I turn on the TV, I run into suffocating foxhole illusions for smoking, and I get alarmed when I think about why I had to sacrifice a few friendships?! - The grimace of this worldly prison is even more realistic and palpable. The accelerated deterioration of decaying promises can be precisely observed. It would be nice to understand the ever-vain Nothingness!