IN THE CRACKS OF GRINDING MILLSTONES

 It would be good to forget the cracked shell of appearances, so that one can see with the naked eye the fake-tinny prepared, petty miracle within them; unhealthy, low-life creepers regularly weave their manipulative, self-serving spider webs on the rubble of everyday life anyway, because the duplicated, invented excuse can silence others. Among the grinding millstones of rotating fortunes, unexpectedly and suddenly, anyone can be immediately crushed by some unpleasant and unfriendly tone, treatment, or modest humility.

 The arguments of opposition - in many cases - are called vile and are thrown out of the gates of the mouths that talk a lot, because even truthful speeches turn into uncontrollable wells of filth, which cannot be listened to enough again and again, - so that meaningless, poisonous swarms of bees may not murmur in one's ears, if not necessary. 

From the toes to the hair follicles, a person's visceral instincts can be so transparent, almost transparent, that he tries to hide them from others. Memories and layers of the soul are shed in the lion's throats of time; perhaps even then they do not dare to fully reveal themselves. It would still be good to defend against the evil trickery of words, no matter how the wheel of the World turns, because distance also increasingly devours its obsolete kilometers.

 With an unbreakable gentle gesture, one would have to stand up alone and prosper, no matter who says or intervenes that: even the impossible is possible. Blunt stones, slow-motion slap-cages, hold their fruitless victims captive, like rusty door locks, will and action - often - deliberately and consciously extinguish each other. Often the proclaimed sense of belonging can seem cruel if there are not enough people standing behind it.