Keeping Tiny Cracks Secret

 As if the massive memory of impending emotional hurricanes were suddenly implanted in the depths of our hearts with surprisingly imperceptible durability; the petty, almost pitiful, creases and tiny cracks, even hinting at secrets, are proportional to each other in direct proportions, like the echoes and sighs of love on a summer evening. The inner suspicious doubt is also redistributed, like the tentacles of an amoeba-animal, which at the beginning of the relationship even we ourselves might have believed could be brushed aside if we deliberately let ourselves be immersed in the amniotic fluid of the subconscious. 

The problem may have been that most people imagined an above-average standard of living for themselves, and none of them could really think about how they could realize this intention from their daily wages, from which so much is already being deducted and cut as if a person were to support several other free-living people at the same time as a loud slogan of social maintenance. It would be appropriate to spice up the daily, universal, Chinovnik-like Gogol-like Calvary with a sour smell of routine, because the final reckoning of routines almost besieges the unsuspecting.

 Even if man tries in vain to wring from Being the approved postponement, according to which he should start everything over again, Life - one way or another - will not allow or leave even a dwarf's finger of delay, because the world of people has long been based on lies, like lentils or half-shelled peas before tests. It is the Stakhanov monotony of constant, almost intentionally preserved, well-preserved exhausted haste that poisons the general coordinate systems of the heart valves.