STEPPING ON THE MUD OF QUICKSAND

The temporary state of time now is bare; this is a preserved, wheezing interval of increasingly conscious, wooden indifference, rather than of helpful understanding. Its muddy, sloppy border points seem to be torn apart by the intentional emptiness. As if they are increasingly flowing, unprotected spaces both inside and outside. 

The Christmas-scented city of Nineveh is also more of a stinking, dirty onion, whose rejected layers have been stacked on top of each other. The borderland of Today and Tomorrow, sucking in its defenseless victims with its shapeless whirlwinds of quicksand, targets abandoned shores, where some herds of scoundrels lurking on the banks of the river, only open their mouths to complain in distrustful, pleading tones. It seems that not even sacrilege can break or lift the monotonous metronome rhythm of everyday life. 

Cynical final tests come and go; the cheap logic of stupid reasoning follows, according to which; responsibility is also deliberately distorted. The given word has become hopelessly ambiguous, and so has a promise, which it would have been good - sometimes - to still hold on to. A person is more likely to tossed about like an orphaned leaf in a fierce wind...