I scraped together the broken-tile memories of my eternal-child Hayden Coldfield adolescence; my broken, restless peace is periodically disturbed by a stray mushroom cloud, a nuclear beam of light. Faceless Gorgon prisoners mingle in the corridors of moving footprints, as if they were constantly anxious, convulsing over what is rarely possible to bring back, since it was lost long ago.

In the eternal birth-movement, I prefer not to scatter the seeds of my goodness that I believed to be solid, because the Universe has both led and deceived me. I know: sooner or later, that certain Someone who loves me for myself will find me in secret; I would fall asleep in the honeyed lap of a rocking dream, like a child asking for a mother, because stones longing to bear witness no longer only wait on the snow-white sand of beaches - but I would also have to be able to find a safe way out of the labyrinthine cave system of the soul.

Every movement of the Beloved left me with an endless, snow-white tremor; as he danced at the blood-dragon glances of twilight, when the waves and murmurs of the sea become one with the expanding horizon, and the ebb and flow of heaven and earth are faithfully grouped into a single center. From our bodies - even after twenty or so years - the solid Shakespearean farewell of our timelessness shines. For destruction always follows a little from the innocent beginnings, which at the beginning of Time the old woman Pakas released above our heads; devouring wolf-traps remain beside us, which it is perhaps better not to step into.

- I must endure the legal, calculating filth of evils - at least, for a little while longer - if I want to remain a man in the depths of crooked mirrors, and not a defenseless Sisyphus!

Only the exhibitionist, almost completely unexpected intimate revelations of reality; the secret, Apocryphal dialogue of the eyes, when the eternal child lurking within us opens the closed soul doors, because in his curiosity he himself wants to peek in a little - yes! Only these small, trivial in their insignificance, commonplaces are able to touch us alone. It is imperceptible to get close to the other in such a way that trust is still dependent, but is already moving along better and better paths towards it, so that it can reach its goal and reach a haven, because it has always been necessary to resign oneself to the current state of unchangeable things.

Even the deepest rabbit hole cannot be comfortable enough for a person to be able to adapt at all. The urban, unnecessary noise is increasingly oppressing its members, because they are not able to look into themselves with enough loyalty, while they can.

Dreams are also increasingly denied only to the average person, since the privileged are able to manipulate even their own dreams; a very tiny, tiny little girl with a Barbie doll who is constantly being pulled and dragged by her lady-model mother, because precious Time is not for her - but for profit and profit, and because of this, her entire childhood is punctured and damaged.

Now we have increasingly learned to sneak through loopholes, stealthily, and live unnoticed, so that no one else suffers the unspeakable damage of our existence here on this earth; we are forced to nod unnoticed, because no one else would have undertaken the backstage cleaning of toilets in Vienna, but with a mirror shine. Meanwhile, it really didn't even occur to me when a person had truly humiliated themselves?!

Like a deepening wound, our still faithful dreams are full of childish nothingness; someone wants a new family house, which - for the sake of variety - has already been installed with central heating and electricity, while another wants a new four-wheel drive SUV, which is a complete extra. A fairy girl with flaxen hair wants to eat fried meat, because even though she is over six years old, she still cannot know what it is, what it tastes like, or what it looks like.

Life is increasingly expandable, but it makes vague concessions and bargains to individual people, which they immediately cling to out of necessity, although they often cannot really understand why they could not move forward on a given social and esteem donkey-ladder.

- A cunning, mischievous, distorted reflection stares into full-length curved mirrors: as if it now wants to deliberately interrogate, to extract something from the person's inner soul, saying: ,,Well, old boy! Let's see! Why are you where you are, or why are you slowly vegetating below the bare minimum, when all our levels can be faked and are so low?!"

- Of course, no one accepts an answer, and perhaps they don't even hope for one, because it's unnecessary, some disgusting, ordinary false-lying tinsel hangs there, tenses in the musty air. They've twisted the slovenly, indifferent disposition - if it even existed - at all. - Perhaps the Present would also seek a human scale, if it still knew what it would be worth trusting in, there would be close, calculated, hesitant lingerings in Time, because now there is the greater lottery of luck to be decided. Fractional sentences of common repayments are torn out on the heads of unnoticed people...

People now only take one step forward, on a rope without a net; they rarely pay attention to their precarious balance - in their calculated manipulative movements they still listen to the gears clicking in their brain, the pressing impulses of their steps, even the blocked calm. Perhaps they should practice the appearances of reality in their dreams, which are still tangible. With their prosthetic teeth grinding, they would rather greedily eat fried meat or fish fillets without bones.

People will probably never be as low as they are right now, and they will never be able to reach a certain middle-class standard, because from their meager salary they can only pay their debts forever, endlessly. - Their contemporaries are sighted colorblind; perhaps they don't even want to see and notice what the Present projects before their eyes with its telephoto lens. This is how they manufacture their buried excuses and carry them as guilt. Even the nothingness of everyday life is increasingly stared at with increasing fury by brainwashed, wild idiots.

Nameless snakes writhe under their feet, because it is a dethroning emptiness, and unconscious indifference would just as easily scratch out each other's eyes today, because it can do so, that all its misdeeds remain unpunished; the past useless years knock on stilts above their heads, because birth repeatedly counts down the meager life. They push the scenery of a bad conscience before their eyes, because they have to scaffold around the canvases of action and will with false words and promises. It would be good to neutralize the intended germs of evil every now and then!

In the stale, meaningless dialogue of stories, an uninvited guest-visitor still pops up from time to time, like a kind of eccentric omniscient; a fugitive who breaks the wheel of relationships, of deceitful feelings. Because there are always those who betray, deceive, or just leave you alone. Spiritual longing seems to be unable to secretly repair itself, to become its own selfish spiritual guide, and to find its way out of winding, crooked paths - at least once in a while - like spiral labyrinths; because the promised words, like unworthy targets shot back into beating hearts, still made people believe that something eternal and perhaps immortal, like the Universe or the sky.

If a guardian angel still appears from the quarantine-like Time, he has either turned into camphor in the blink of an eye or - because he wished it so - deserted; we are now in the dense ring of decades, as if our gestures of indifference, wanting to belittle our actions, were deliberately calcified. As if a local, location-specific observation, or biased attention, were enough, as if we wanted to find our way around with a GPS in the sea of ​​sincere feelings that we have alienated and appropriated.

The shortest path between two points has once again been eroded, destroyed due to the rewriting of building regulations, and since it is no longer possible to travel by bicycle or four-wheeled car, the number of hesitant, sloppy loitering is certainly increasing. One is stuck here again, speechless like sour grapes, hanging on a rope end that has already been deliberately cut in half...

An invisible tremor inoculated unnoticed into the nodes; it ***** up invisibly at once, surrounds, and does not let go of its unsuspecting victims with its octopus tentacles. The truth is known in the order of the World: No one can be innocent enough, because - as is well known - not only the wild will to live began with birth, but perhaps also the realization that we are dependent on ourselves. A spiral chain of unnoticed infectious diseases inoculated into the visceral certainty of the bones, which can also be caused by age-related changes.

Lack swirls like a vortex, because it has secretly stretched itself onto the polar surfaces of the skin; it would not be necessary for the fierce and fierce vicissitudes of everyday life to drag its shipwrecked people along unnoticed, to speak - often - because there is no one to do so. The petty axioms of hissing denials are organically enclosed within oneself, because one still believes that it is somewhat better to cope in finite solitude.

We dream of a single touch throughout a lifetime, which we could not receive in a million and one forms enough, neither from our mother nor from our beloved, it would perhaps have been better to cling to the manipulable promises of friendly handshakes, if we could have wanted something to finally happen. In the tunnels of the blood vessels, in airtight oxygen capsules, instincts and desires also travel in order, as in public transport.

Most people would now prefer clear clarity, common sense for themselves, not the preaching of false slogans that almost never get us anywhere. - The cheap appearance of lazy indifference should be eliminated sooner or later, because we have had enough of the offerings of puddles.

In our golden, dust-sized Existence-Time, we all travel like stowaways along blind tracks, walking our own soul-killing Odyssey; as if we already guessed in advance what our good mother gave birth to us for, struggling for life. Maybe then, even as half-groping blind children, it was good to believe to ourselves that there could be a purpose and value to the fact that we are still here, and that we want to be somewhere.

Like hidden shadows or sacred radiance, our secrets are either this way or that - but they will remain with us forever if we do not tell them to anyone; the comfort of fake smiles that intrude on a person may not really excite us anymore, since almost all of them are false, fake, or just tinsel. As if Reality, of which we are unconsciously part, like pieces of cells or microparticles, wanted to knock more and more frequently.

It would be nice to be filled with unearthly harmonies in the lap of the Universe in the hope of a fuller life; the peaks of rock-hearts have pierced the torn canvases of my soul a million times, and there was no one who could have promised to heal me. We have been stuck outside the gate of redeeming salvation for a long time, which was closed with seven padlocks. The soul, which has already received enough careless pain, nurtures cacti of solitudes alone, the memory preserves torn dreams.

Why do we constantly feel that our every move, our DNA instinct, and the physical blueprint of our genetics are full of doubt and hesitation, if we even dare to go through the stages of the life journeys we have begun, or walk in the sacred captivity of balmy sunsets on the beach, where the shore can only be filled with people with perfect bodies?! There is still a long way to go until we realize this, if only there were always someone standing by our side as a helping hand to show us the way through the swamp of confusion!

This present, gloomy, wretched Time rattles its iron keys; many seven-locked doors creak so that later they will finally close, because now even those who could once have been prophets or small-time heralds are sinking into the tower of silence. The materialistic spirit of the given era is driving more and more people into an unhappiness dubbed permanent. Because now there is only one law: to squeeze profit even from the poorest stratum.

The barriers have also been soaked in us, which we built primarily so that even those who once professed with loyalty: I love you, could not get to know us well. Your sleeping enemies are hovering around you, like the giggling hyena hordes, with whom you can no longer do anything, because they reappear again and again in the fabric of your life; Life, which does not wait to swim or frolic, sends you messages with reckless, lazy thrusts - but twists your full, barely attainable possibilities.

Everyone can only pretend to have this great hypocritical happiness, which has become the sole right and privilege of the minute-man on the outskirts of the tabloid media. The present is now increasingly vulture-like. It always gnaws at its prey bones and greasy slobbers at the expense of others. Hypocrites in robes increasingly submit to some difficult-to-understand rule, which others have imposed on their heads; after all, sluggish ignorance is perhaps still better than the weighty Sisyphusian knowledge.

We are also deceived by the curse of everyday life, by the sack of evil, from which penny-worth of good deeds rarely rattle or fall, and the truth grafted into honesty, which is spoken by mouths and lips but rarely understood, is an increasingly bitter, rotting fruit. Even reason is witnessing falsified eras, because the objective sources have all been lost or destroyed. Even the cold Reality is becoming more and more malleable, more flammable.