CONFLICT OF WEEKDAYS

Consciousness acts more and more by itself as if it were an automatic machine; will or humility is at best only in the books, if it exists. Cells, molecules, bodies are all part of this manipulative, thought-out diligence. Diligent squatting, crouching in the ancient way of diligent and careful crickets and ants, but why?! If it's not the joint expenses, bills, utilities, then the petty debts that have accumulated up until now are suffocating one's goals, desires, and childish-naive dreams.

Our echoing footsteps retreating before deliberate door slams still ring continuously; the pitiful, small-scale preservation of our remnants, perhaps, in truth, they don't really depend on us anymore - we can only be little specks of dust here, who can be pulled at will by Fate, Fate, timeliness, slave ships, and the camp of pampered bosses. Understanding and acceptance seem to have pinched themselves with nettles as two separate pairs of concepts.

Once again, fallen angels are broadcast somewhere, as a kind of peculiar, derailed career aspirations, which, like falling comets, changed their trajectory early on, then changed their lives, and finally fell to a deliberately lowered standard. - People, like gorillas who can be taught to sign language, jump at each other's throats when they see and experience how well "some" people are doing their everyday things.

Each time of the day, which man still lives out of compulsion, is powerless and compact; who really cares about system errors and misalignments of tragicomic perspectives, instead of cheap tinsel-taboo sensations?! In the depths of the exaggerated self-image, it's more like a Karinthy caricature. Silent tolerance has become a world patent?! You should cling to the feeling, where there are still home-shelters at all!