REPUBLIC OF MUD-SOULS

 A hesitating autumnal fall between cramps; halfway between life and death they can be carried away again and again. My fate is falling, because I let myself be foolishly swept away enough times by the roaring currents of Time, vibrating to silent Morse codes, the pitiful, orphan despair of the Soul would buzz within me, which on the way - if there is nothing else - it is my duty to console myself. I wander among windswept shadows, like a lame Hephaestus, while in my sick heart with a heart attack the child's dawn rumbles. 

My silent hopes, resembling the ringing of bells, sound like a barking dog, which on the way - if there is nothing else - they leave me to myself. Instinct is still silent in me, like the sacred orphanhood of prisoners' chains, because we have become treacherous accomplices, like hunters chasing and hunted wild animals: we relentlessly chase each other around and around, viscerally. Reality is now an increasingly torturous asceticism, because someday, if everyone wants it, false witnesses and false prophets will also go free alongside the guards and prisoners, or will escape like voluntary Zarathustras from the infected mass-world.

 Now even the simple ideas that want to think are hindered, if brainwashed idiots dictate the trend law with a stubborn, hysterical mood: being wild jerks is chic, and it's a cool pleasure. God forbid that free-thinking penmen take part in the party-drama of mud-souled genie brothers. - Perhaps it would be better to return once and for all to where I myself once came from. Like a frightened little animal hiding in the depths of a molehill, I walk through the wilderness, condemned to solitude. We cannot catch up - no matter how much we want to - with the eager footsteps of tramplers and destroyers.