SMELLING GARBAGE HILLS

This current weeding century with a distorted-grotesque face runs further and further back, deliberately hindering itself; who knows for which tower the answer to the flood of many mistaken, useless questions might be?! Even now, what remains is the alamustic impulse and hesitancy of the impotence and indifference dubbed permanent. A person would prefer to deny not only his stable insecurity, but his officially completed schooling, and would rather pretend to be a vile, bambam fool, just to win a job for himself unfairly.

Could the question posed deep in the soul be true: Choosing means giving up on yourself in a hundred ways? Why does a person have to stand in one place for sixty years so that he can pass away embittered and disillusioned?! - The city is now bathed in deep fish and rat smells, despite the fact that many protestors are declaring a holiday; many of them are more likely to be deliberately sloppy, swallowed, or just regurgitated, because they felt nauseous from the superficial neighborly preaching love, from barely five minutes of helpfulness, so they prefer to pull aside of their own accord to a decent distance.

What is the order of time or Fate for this current World, if he wants, the great director breaks the rules of the game almost immediately and upsets the whole thing in a petty, tyrannical way, because he always seems to project the blind visions of the mind inside; now many moon-dweller-fools, even dwarf-Atlas, carry the disgusting World on their backs for a lifetime, and they don't even notice that the big smelly Nothing will be waiting for them. It's as if the last benefactors at the end of human life are willing gravediggers who hang good money.