ROBINSON'S FATE AMONG STRANGED SOULS

 Unknown, uncertain tomorrows stomp over my head like ghosts or goblins awakened from their sleep. I often wonder: have I actually changed so much that everyone has slowly disappeared from my side, or have they just left me alone, like half-witted disabled people, or Forest Gumps who have failed, or is it the grotesque, nonsense World with which I have come to understand myself less and less?! 

My eternally childish self of adolescence often competed not only with speeding cloud continents, but also with the instincts of the Universe, which lurk in the depths of my eyes, unnoticed by the conscious; vanished card houses, dream ships that have run out. And while the great Wheel of Time, which has begun to rust, is constantly grinding the spinning blind luck, like hasty fugitives fleeing from man's happy and peaceful eras.

 Whom Fate has dragged so stepmotherly after the ornate, posh daridos of prom-goers, although his specific plans had a meaning and purpose, today, as an outcast, he tries to thrive on the surface of the earth with less success. Why, that all remaining human intentions are already so cursed?! I would like to faithfully investigate whether the whole thing can have any meaning at all in this turbulent anthill World, and that even once a man could not have lived here in vain, - perhaps - this is now just a piece of crap, a foolish dream, nothing more, and so our useless, burdened decades are also turning to dust. 

- All bargains and laws are in vain: The World and the weak little nobodies in it never change, because it is impossible to take a worthy guarantee for its promise and word. I will bequeath my sick, tachycardiac heart-stump, like a human, traveling Robinson Crusoe, to an urn: see, I am dust and ashes!