INTENT-CRACKS ON GROTESK WALLS

 Because the wear marks of the increasingly narrowing solidification of Beginnings and Ends, the ever-decaying petty movements, the petty, cheap little suspicions, as if the disappearance of mortality were an increasingly obvious fact; because if they can barely know anything about someone, it's a bit like they weren't even born - at least - nowadays. 

Even so, on the massive grotesque prison wall of Reality, a constantly changing vision or plane of thought pings changing boundaries; because now the petty scoundrel, just like the sly accomplice, breaks into each other's crypt-face - often -, just like in a distorted mirror. The money-hungry courtesan needs a lot of herself, if necessary, if not, only so that she alone can benefit, - no one understands the silent shell, if a grain of sand injures her insides and her soul hurts, because there was hardly anyone left who could refute the bare, visceral Reality; the cruel Time engraved in hearts is constantly moving further, and no one can climb the invisible steps of trust anymore. 

As if every abyss-intention could only be silent under stretched feet; the sure consciousness of helplessness gropes around a person's affairs, like the blind. Time sooner or later always settles sharply in our bones. It would be useless to search for missed opportunities again, because they have long ceased. Every gift-jus that a promising person ever borrowed from you has become an eternal, gnawing thought. Questions and emotions burned into our souls, expecting their now assured answers.