AFTER BREAKS

I constantly force myself into a lively, self-deprecating debate. The false-lying, tinsel carnival of weekdays really surprised me; isolated in feverish spaces, melancholic, wandering like an occasional Yorick fool, I believed many, many things, and the most important thing: Man can still be repaired!

- Like a merry-go-round dancing in a whirlwind, it would have been nice to defiantly believe that everything is different from what the snarky, useless, Marcona Reality proclaims. I would have expected that common sense, the holy determined Will, and humanity would indeed spread its beloved bird's wings, and if a conviction or thought is strong enough, it would take off and fly away. With a colorless, crypt-white face, I played - I can admit it, although I'm very, very ashamed - the servant fool for a long time.

So old, yet familiar faces greeted me: "Listen, mate! How do you shape your life?! How much is the horse guard, and how is your verda? How big is your girl's breast?! etc. - And while the gambler's give-and-take went on on the surface, I, as a notorious conflict-avoiding Yorick nature, walked away with a quiet Englishness, deliberately avoiding the idyllic courtroom.

I feel it more and more; in my internal molecular organs, some strange, unknown instinct boils viscerally, which is often related to conscious Absence and Nirvana-Nothingness. They once offered me laugh-out-loud light chats that I had nothing to do with; I have collected just enough in my forty years of small bribes. The roaring sounds of cursing, ready to lash out, brutally and mercilessly penetrated my much-listened-to ears.

I have already seen and experienced the gagging of hellish hellish mouths and the vengeful cross-section of fists; since those who cannot stand the endless present mess should better stay out of everything and not stew.