BELIEVE THEY ARE STILL FAILING

As a seeming memory, I imagine the full spell of our Loves of the Universe that can be experienced on romantic beaches. I look at the sea from a distance, where together we forgot our lively, talkative footprints. It's as if I'm stumbling into restless paths, where I only yearn for the Separate Peace, avoiding the aching blind luck of any agreement that has already begun. Now it's as if all Humans deliberately carry bad luck on their prodigal shoulders like a Sisyphus burden;

During their unknown, Apocryphal lives, perhaps no one could have remained who could have known and known who they were in their fully human nature - it would be so good to search for guaranteed life-beds with stubborn determination, until only from the initial source can one reach the final goals. - There are now more and more of the brood of the bológato herd, who giggle and guffaw, and the bigger or more sacrilegious a sensation is, the more they will be in their element.

But it would be nice to have a quiet stretch of coast where only the hero-lovers would have the right and the privilege to discover and keep the true and honest holy delight of bud-creating happiness according to the laws of the heart. - Rebellion that leaves order can often still be useful. The ailing, fleeing heart often aches at a sharper thorn-wound from which blood molecules leak out. This current wild, dumbed-down Sanda Age is both depressing and disconcerting; eternally overworked, overworked, total nuclear exhaustion, in which almost everyone is exhausted in the short term.

It's even more of a shame to fail now, even though you could learn a lot from it. Superficial lies are still circulating. I carry the inflamed wounds of my rebellious silence even further with a will believed to be unshakable. Our days are screaming the petals of the nights...