MOLE CIRCLES OF FALSE PROMISES

 

 A wild, persistent, dull rumbling in the head, as if the average person were forced to travel through uncharted realms on untrodden paths. The landscape of childhood that had sailed away could no longer be his, because the frozen, inviting swamp world of memories unexpectedly and suddenly pulls him down into the mole tunnels of the depths rather than lifting him up. He has to walk backwards, drifting, in the Executioner Times, which can no longer be his own; the startled instinctive pulsation of blood cells among granular pores, as if DNA were a concept rather than an existing thing. 

Finally, heaped up in a heap from anxiety and shame, almost nothing remains. A stinking, infectious shell-solitude, which is like a hesitantly delirious, wingless bird that dreams of freedom like a startled arrow; the crown of light on the forehead of the Angel, believed to be unshakable - many can hardly fully know the harmony that promises salvation. As if he were already following the alluring echoes of otherworldly words most willingly - man staggers, trying to force even the lawful passing away with his heavier steps. 

The barbaric World hisses before our threshold, like a predatory, prey-like beast, eternally hungry and unable to rest; monotonous, withered piles of uniformity, like the dried-up, distorted-mirror tangles of Reality, are heard, because no one can know now: what kind of filthy chess games of great powers have we gotten into again?! 

As if language itself simultaneously defiles and utterly betrays mortals. Bacterial colonies foaming in an indifferent, gelatinous medium are cherished by research chemists; Who pays them more?! The crowd of people jostling towards each other slowly swells into one and touches each other again, and no one asks: tell me, who will drive away the persistent nauseating fish smell?!