HIDDEN DOG BARKS

Dog barking still nests secretly, deep in the soul; in the not too distant future even the petty-pathetic lies said to be kind will burn to ashes, it is perhaps a little futile to cling to the throbbing of doubts. Sooner or later everyone would deny themselves a little in a nauseating, nauseating consciousness; i.e. they have become a total bore to the whole World, so that it is increasingly difficult to admit the historical hesitation of the Executioner Times. It seems that man would regularly overcrowd himself; therefore, even so, there may be plenty of lost, stored gaps, the inner self would still preserve the swaying, floating silence of memories, just as the brain also gradually makes a bed for the heart, and yet they see more with the eyes, because the final moment of the experiences may also wait for realization, just like a well-conceived plan. In a flock of departing storks, it would still be good to discover here and there the appearance of independent events that have become illusions. 

Melodies of touch that promise the All can soon escape from the cross-sections of tingling fingers; and man will be forced-unpleasantly to turn to a new, unrequited, but crystal-clearly loyal, betrayed emotional fabric, so that he can still feel the possible place of his inner instincts. The final moment of the experiences waits only for himself in every second...

 In the pauses of existence, indifference-nothingness warns man that if he can still want something at all, he would do better; he must not cling to the lack of plans - but counting wounds in holey pockets and getting through increasingly difficult, bleak tomorrows. A fate more base than anything, in which the germ of the Soul does not blossom, but dies a little every blessed, miserable day.