SCRAPING MOLE SOULS

 Now everyone knows: mud paralyzes, and darkness is called permanent. In a holy locust trance, the many brainwashed masses of people must swarm in insane anthills from zero to twenty-four hours until dawn, with open sawtooth shark teeth snarling at each other like a deadly competition, if necessary incessantly. In beating hearts, a certain well-recognition would normally be necessary; now it is necessary to provide an alibi for every still manipulable compromiser. 

A sobbing Sahara-desert breaks upon us, which has long been ours anyway, ravines and facades snap together, like eccentric Columbus eggs in a lake of circulating consciences; because the useless request for help of the Present, drilled into the bodies, is now barely noticeable. Many people prefer to stay at the top of the hill and take the universal direction towards the towers of silence. 

Action and alms-like action call to everyone in the storm-language of redemptions, after nobler humility has long been forgotten. Through the opening and slamming closed doors of Being, like diligent moles through secret tunnels, a hair-splitting, sly lie-maker still burrows through. Now, like a hanged traitor, empathy-tolerance hangs its senses here and there; on the edge of what kind of gaping Charybdis pits does a person still need to balance at all to find his true sense of place here?! 

Proud ravens perch in trembling ecstasy on the tops of skeletal-clawed trees. Crawling worms of a wasteful past crawl into the dirty sand dunes. And while above, golden waste and debauchery smoke, the intentionally forgotten honor of true meaning and thought falls weightlessly back into the cavernous depths of the soul. For now, the persistent rot smells even more strongly, like some pleasant pile of manure.