BEGINNING OVER A RANGE OF TIMES

I stand in the depths of myself without ceasing. Now over forty years old, I have become well acquainted with the labyrinthine paths that have woven through my shipwrecked life. In the secret depths of my soul, a bottomless lake rests seemingly undisturbed; its calm, balanced foam cherishes the billion tears of true pearls. Only those who sincerely accept it can now recognize it, and of course they cannot want to change it anymore. The one who comforts the incessantly chattering, rambunctious child in me as selfless kindness.

- Over my head - maybe - one day the holy steps of guardian angels will ring, and I will not always be viscerally alone. Even the inner personality, which nowadays everyone likes to hide from others on purpose, is single-minded, secret, and unknown, because if a wounded and disillusioned heart is already broken, even consolation cannot be considered a salvific medicine. Even now, I can only crouch on the iron bed of my fears, drums pounding in my pores playing otherworldly jungle music, small-scale promises and intentions of handshakes, which even now could not be fully realized, are sneaking around.

Now that the holidays are approaching within arm's reach, as if in the harmonious night the stench of piles of manure is becoming more and more obvious, and even more noticeable... "Doesn't something stink in Budapest?" they may ask. A homeless-looking man.

The glittering and flashing appearances, which are not good for a flea market, now seem to be covered with a hellish mold; it just remains wasted among haughty puffers, because the real Spirit, like the cauldron, is inside. As a mortal prisoner of infinite Time, I myself would often be better off if I didn't waste my tiring, precious treasure minutes "on some" in a stupid way!