ABORTED DREAM OF SAND-IDILL

 In the sacred foreground of silent starbursts, the night murmurs, marches, then scurries; packs of rabid, barking dogs chase the cheese-smelling moonlight. The night street bends, as if a perilous human existence is under the weight of trials. Hidden in the pockets of a winter coat buttoned into stars, worms and insects hide, humming. 

Our body's hungry instinct-hunger - be careful - will sooner or later totally plunder us. As if now even human impulses would deliberately want to equalize. So many aborted, idyllic sand-dreams dance through their intermediate-indifferent stations. The compromisers tumble over the waves of their skin one after another, because corruption creeps up in their thickened veins.

 A thirst for stone cracks our lips that have begun to crack. There is nothing to do on the concrete slabs of Nothing, if they have stolen and trampled all the movable building materials. The useless s**t remains, because even though it may seem that they stand before the scales, washed and spotless, their sins still weigh them down with lead weights. 

A hissing whiplash sweeps over them, because their effective arguments have been deliberately thrown away. They live and survive in ruins, and it seems that no one wants to rebel or protest in a dignified way anymore, since they have easily forgotten what it was like to remain human. 

On the leaky walls of burst lies, a glimpse of truth sometimes breaks through. Our already scattered truths snap like playful steel balls. The petty bonds of habits sooner or later rise above in every soul; why is it that a person comes to himself a little at every moment, like a complete stranger?! The World, like unbreakable dominoes, unloads its arguments onto other continents. The great gate hidden in hearts reveals the alley of the night.