THE ANATOMY OF FINAL ILLUSTRATION

 The budding romantic morning of summer, like a colorful veil, is now torn into tiger stripes; the musty-smelling darkness of Sikátor is unraveling from itself in strands. Man would like to throw off not only his nightmares, like a worn, worn, worn-out coat, but also the germs of human-smelling, two-faced evil. Like a thick, impassable door, which can lead to who knows where - all the sinful sins of infinity close on us unnoticed. that we have become mortal, and our immortal soul cannot be completely independent, free, locked in the cage of our body. Even now, above every dream-career, a rubbed, greedy, petty condor vulture circles, feasting on the remains of mooching prey. It would be good if we could strip our inner souls of finite sadness, like the secret anatomy of sorrow, because inside �" often barely noticeable �" a firm barking that wants to whine how loudly roars. 

Man always dies a little in his Sisyphean selfishness, he can never fully understand the helpless absurdities of filling up. Hour by hour, not only conscious small-mindedness grows, but also the universally expanded fear of failure and success, according to which: no one can be good enough either for himself or for the great, hypocritical World. In crypt faces, increasingly vile, evil grotesque grins look at witnesses, hypocritical prophets, like grimaces.

 The selfishness of the world first necessarily consumes, but also surprisingly often buries its defenseless victims, who would still have clung to something. Wrapped up in petty sermons of words, like pupae, people mostly betray and betray themselves first. Fewer and fewer people can take an understanding look at the precise evidence of corruption!