IN THE CAPTURE OF WHISPERING VALVES

 I know well all the petty filth of the once Nineveh-smelling city; walls and gates have long since stopped shaking hands with me, neither arches nor rows of houses turn their faces towards me. In the early morning robot, I still trudge along like a slug, one or two articulated buses, while gossipy old women also say: "A young man can never be tired enough!" 

- The general sunset of my stoic, weathered bitterness, like a splinter, burrows right under the pores of my parchment skin, and it is no longer possible to write it out from there; I would often try to force geometric calm on my face, if only the Hyena World would allow it and let it be regular even in the whirlpools of contradictions that have been baptized - now -, there are more and more inexorable contradictions. I would rather say goodbye to the melodious but cushioned handshakes for good, since all promises are false and phony. Stumbling on thresholds,

 I can only be my own gentle Sisyphus-Executioner. Because it would be better to safely avoid the imposed compromise, which has now become increasingly popular, the anemic self-deception is certainly not as attractive as it was five or ten years ago. Invisible whips are now flying over my soul, and perhaps I should accept that I will be sleepless forever. In the trembling tiger teeth of nights - I feel it myself - how defenseless and vulnerable the curse of visceral mortality has made me. The screaming silence runs all over my back and I would like to escape immediately if I could, because the inner self also becomes a double parenthesis, if it still wants to be free from the towers of inner silences.