MONOTONY OF CRACKS

 You look around even more than once a day at the tiny breakpoints of the deserted street corners that lie in front of your house, like black, underworldly rivers. You know very well: there is nothing moving or compassionate about your own sinking descent. A few stray ants, eager to swarm, appear a few chetniks away, and you seem to forget to react to the fact that; you are increasingly resembling the physique of an average public employee, who - in most cases - is not and cannot be well paid.

 The meaningfully complex conversations of the previous days seem to be made more and more difficult by some self-evident, inner anatomy; because even between movements, treacherous accomplice-gestures, some essential connections hanging on solid legs can increasingly be broken. The content of the conversations also seemed to have been deliberately eliminated, or at least completely transformed; the sincere, trusting, human presence had disappeared from them.

 Only the murmuring monotony could remain. The supposed permanent, pretending suspicion had become an inseparable umbilical cord, since no one could trust the other, as if they regarded each other as air. In ever-increasing, spiraling circles, on the ruins of the everyday life they had fought, why is it necessary for a person to continue to struggle viscerally with himself?! From the confusion of our permanent petty disputes, we are afraid, hardly anyone can find a safe exit.

 We are increasingly throwing the ideas of overreacted reciprocity out of the atrium of our souls, like a worn-out old joke that can no longer be of any use. There can no longer be anything liberating in the fact that we ourselves eventually dissolve in permanent, mutual separations.