CLOSED DOOR HANDLE, CHEWING GUM

 There can't be much chance against gold spits engraved in a table of chewing gum; knocking sleeps in so many door handles that are already closed. Perhaps even trust and unconditional humility have been excluded, because they couldn't be allowed to prevail. Souls are being shorn of their bare skin in a frightening way; halfway between quivering and insemination, it seems as if everything and everyone is deliberately being stung. 

No one can understand how they could possibly make amends for wanting to exist on this Earth, but couldn't. Forgiveness would fester in human hearts, like pus, but it's in vain for a person to travel the world if they can't find a harmony that brings satisfaction. Purpose and desire may all seem like worn-out passwords; the Soul is constantly revealing its stubborn-selfish infinity, and what is still left. 

Why is it that people like to keep empty hands, when they could even make sincere friendships?! Because now everyone has become thoroughly suspicious, misunderstood, like suspicion - in vain would the expectation still count on people to fiddle with their ideals, while the uncertainly rolling Future has also been nailed down one by one. Man is both a creative cradle and a tomb, since he is a petty prisoner of his body. 

Because there is no judge or law anywhere to judge the hope that everyone has the right to; was the perpetrator a victim?! A worthy and thoughtful answer can arrive less and less to the creeping flood of questions. They also look for an escape route for the truths, which they continue to smear with hot fat. Every sermon-speech, a vile digression, which - in any case - ends in the same place.