DICE WITH THE SMELL OF SWEAT

 The helpless, greedy knots of movements unexpectedly loop around an entire human life; perhaps even if we are not careful enough. Existence is still stuttering now, like dice in sweaty palms, a predictable series of blind luck; the pointer of moments flickers, while a decade suddenly flies over one's head...

 Deep down, one would still have to endure the so-called low points, which regularly surround the ways of choices; there remain - even so - the hand-wringing of petty haste, who wants to go where, who can assert himself with pitiful efficiency?! There remains the stealing silent character, the withheld hand-holding promise, which always sounds good, but can be worth nothing, one must cling to fundamentally losing states, so that most people believe that maybe once it was worth it. 

More and more modern, cheaply reproachful promises are being made from distant times that this life will be better than, say, this one now. Bad, pathetic memories of idylls, like children's drawings, paint themselves on walls, forming the golden truths of merciless tomorrows. Most people now deliberately live as if they had deliberately remained hidden deep inside; as if Fate and Destiny will peel them off like layers of an onion skin together, until they finally split open. 

Through crocodile tears, it would be good to see into the souls of others for just five minutes, so that Someone can console the irrefutable orphanhood. From wingbeat to wingbeat, we live in a sink, where - whether we like it or not - the fecal stench also remains.