INTERMEDIATE RELATIONSHIP

 Our tangled, numb soul still floats untangleable - but be careful, it may not be for that long. In the prison cage of our ribs, the heart beats unstoppably, struggling, as if we had to endure the intermediate relationships on the border between sleep and wakefulness in a half-sleep, in a hibernated coma. 

As if the stable outlines within us were slowly blurring and being absorbed, like a kind of human laws that guaranteed the difficult everyday life we ​​endured. Again and again, we simultaneously take apart, but also put back together our useless, storm-battered life; it would be good to still live the usual schedule, if life could be saved from one morning to the next. 

Stolen desire-instincts, or wasted, cowardly moments - not many - paint the walls of the Phalanx that Reality and us have branded as permanent, while our old, rusty padlock-secrets - hardly one left - with whom it could be worthily shared, discussed. The many useless, old rubbish-laughter rot in us. 

The whispering, split chance can almost be said to be a brother-relative, total indifference has become an eternal path, as the foam of blind fate and luck carries us away, - if we are not careful - it will sweep us away forever. As if the scattering of our past events and memories had begun long ago. Hand in hand with Nerve-Time and our tomorrows doomed to transience. 

We shrink ourselves in the petty way of saleable bargains, like prey that cannot yet know that it is being hunted viscerally; the two sure endpoints: comfort and understanding should not be separated from each other. We are, like lazy tourist candidates, stepping through the circle of life, who knows where and to where?!