Counting exiled faces

 It would be good to understand and measure the remaining no-Time, to reach the outskirts of somehow unknown inner psychological feelings, where perhaps the call of conscious silence and silence can still be heard crystal clear; somewhere, sometime, the exiled faces will come together and be consoled. 

Wandering souls only scatter the pre-established geometric orders of Existence, from which they were once taken. It has long been known that on the garbage heap of unfinished things we should survive the massive and indifferent unbearableness of our still unfulfilled things, but the false promise of conspiratorial compromise and each new promising bargain has imposed a straitjacket on human mouths.

 Out there, people no longer love each other with just honest, animal fear - but as if, with deliberate pleasure, they are forced to miss their last, smallest chance to make anything better and nobler. The dirt of the crowded everyday life is washed off from people, and what is left is left; even the brainwashed thought systems behind the forehead become crumpleable. 

More and more people cherish the monuments of monotony, because, with the broken, rusty wings of color-blind fates, there is hardly anyone who would stand by a person and say: "I will help you, because we were born of the same flesh!" - As if every unnecessary movement were also a rock-load, which is difficult to account for if they ask: how are you?!

 Only the final beginning of lasting solitude should be known, free from bargains and contracts. The sincere cries of childhoods that could have been trampled are constantly being dragged out on the urine-stained diapers of the already existing manhood. The persistent stimulus threshold of conscious aloofness will eventually only point the way towards our uncertainty.