THE HANDCUFFS OF ORDINARY HYPOCRITICAL LOGICS

 The weak man has long since tumbled out of the basket of dreams; through hissing visions, like blood vessels pulsating in a wall. Because - he would rarely admit it to himself - it would be good to finally rise above the ordinary, weak logic, to the abandoned, barren-smelling shores, beyond the chained gates of the four directions, following the mellow vision - so that he would no longer have to silently endure the wild, fierce onslaught of compromisers and conspirators.

 Hesitant preparations, monotonous monologues, unflagging, childish diligence could only remain with him as a kind of constantly anxious readiness. Because who could he turn to here and now, who had decided: he would never compromise?! Who would deliberately avoid public, solemn breast-beating? A suspicious servility now looms around man; simultaneously lurking and sniffing to see how much he can shamelessly steal. 

The damp, musty, and musty pits of loneliness seem to have nested themselves under the pores of the skin. True and sincere friendships have also been swallowed up more and more by the earth. The suffocating rings of pity also grip the weight of difficult everyday life more and more tightly. Man is forced to retreat, stumbling, with his face turned back, if he wants to survive the lot of dirt and filth that has suddenly fallen on his neck. 

Sooner or later, almost every social being remains alone, even in the shriveling up to a perfect point, a speck of dust. Inner uncertainty, like the confused, hesitant loitering, is becoming more and more obvious. Namely, that it is no longer possible to place oneself anywhere in the average. He drifts along temporary forced paths, balancing like a wobbly tightrope walker, as he could hardly do anything else - without help. He is being skinned and bruised by this current digital Hyena decade, where permanent indifference reigns.