DIGGERED, SILENT TRENCHES

 Like a big pile of fragrant holy mold; the rot nicknamed permanent already smells everywhere. Stigma, its meaningless scars bubble up and down, so that we can see it is still alive, because they are already suffering permanently from thirst for air. The gaseous, vile promise-lie is becoming more and more compact, right up to the random explosion-cataclysm. Sooner or later we will intentionally move out of our own rotten skin; like the onion skin, it is necessary to peel off the personality inside, layer by layer, so that we can understand with precision and accuracy who the person we hesitantly stood face to face with is really. 

Like a jugular vein that has not yet been cut by a hesitant scalpel-blade - Executioner-sword Time is already pulsating after forty years - it seems - more and more diligently; We wait on a sandbank to be swallowed up by our memories, difficult-to-interpret love confessions, and the tragedies of losses connected with passing away. 

Now, sheep-patient and rabbit-hearted people are being chained by an ostentatious indulgence, because it can. In the fattening Death, the victims thought to be lost fall like curls into the cavernous depths of the lean, gaping pits they themselves dug. As if even our acquaintances, who were thought to be our closest friends, were greedily, wildly munching on the events of our survivable childhood, like false witnesses or judges. The heart is still identical to the reflections of handshakes nicknamed swinging friends, the wheel imposed on the skinny clicks under lives like hardening peas.

 Sooner or later, the possibility of corruption will grind everyone down to the bone. Every imagined or real dream-plan dissolves like layers of fibers, and a stray, aborted creak of nonsense quickly slips across the thin thread of the horizon.