THE MARGINAL REGIONS OF PETRIFIED, SUSPECTIVE SOULS

 In the concrete-cast forest of petty suspicions, an untouched, constantly secretive, mysterious manipulative duality, which perhaps even those whose inner soul has been repeatedly infected by this vile Age and made the object of their bargains no longer trust.

 The massive tar layers of indifference and conscious apathy should be scraped off from the distorted grimacing faces, because there are only a few left who understand the silently left Morse codes, Who do not boast over thread-thin depths that they can dance - but it is not necessary to extinguish the tiny miracles of destruction deep in their souls. 

Amidst the perfectly polished splendor of showcase movements, it seems as if everyone deliberately forgets that they were once human and not a self-proclaimed celebrity, a party queen diva. There is no urgent need for sweating jugglers, nor for circus acrobats who would viscerally hold up this sinking World - but for well-crafted human heads with seemingly irreproachable facial expressions.

 To show with honor through fenced off peripheries that there is a right to thrive and assert oneself in a different way. It is necessary to crouch down with measured pleasures at the banquet of the beggar, already doomed to loneliness, so that he can come and stay. It would be good to knock on a few more doors and windows through the desert of chessboard corridors, because fulfillment also has spiraling labyrinths that cannot be easily deciphered by a clumsy human mind and will; after all, anyone who does not produce even a breakneck performance for seconds is easily branded with the sacred stamp: Boring. 

Man is getting smaller and smaller, like a speck of dust or larvae, and if he doesn't take care of himself - it could easily happen - that even the bittersweet attempts of his difficult everyday life are devoured.