ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE POSTMODERN PRESENT

 The mind - in many cases - is a manipulated intellect that plays on petty bargains and bribes; the Present, which has been lied to intolerably, is now sliding on its knees in disgust, because this current superficial, thin postmodern era has become more and more Tartarus. There is rarely a mouse path left to escape from the historical abyss that seemed to be bound and seemed permanent; it is not necessary to decide, but rather to continue to tolerate and serve the many fools who want to profit in a slave-like manner. 

Ten deka dreams, half a kilo of desires - that is not much - that a cunning promise-maker produces every day. Nameless sorrows would still claim their predictable inheritances. From a death of pleasure, the certain Existence seems to be beckon back and forth. Our sealed secrets are revealed by our innermost instincts; because there are scavengers walking around this big world now. The belittling snakebites of pity, just like the phrases of self-pity, have long been burned into the soul. 

It would be good to demand the right of the thinking mind to see the intricate connections among brainwashed idiots and ignorance through culture and self-taught books. Because now all unnecessary, petty sins have long been considered merit. Who could have been a good friend, a brother in trouble yesterday, if he instead switched to the camp of scheming scoundrels and dragged you along with him. To the joy and happiness of others, surprisingly many people are now jealously envious. 

A limping pensioner aunt is making steaming horse lemon dough, saying: that could also be good for something! - After all, now the average person is increasingly becoming a silent and consciously suspicious animal. Fear is less and less exercised from Nothing, mere will and Being are wringing themselves out. On distribution platforms now idols and cheap swindlers are jostling, pushing, while honesty is bleeding from several stigma wounds...