Existence of Finches

 
Human life today is increasingly panic-stricken. It is as if it had been assembled from hurricane elements into a disingenuous, temporary Order, to shape and destroy in a trinity of career-fame-fame-ambition, spinning in circles. The insidious, flirtatious, insidious offers of flirtation hidden behind the cloak of disguised courting intentions are immediately detectable. The bribeable, money-hungry soul has also been transformed into a thin shell of algae in unventilated swamps.

Wrinkle-free, blinding toothpaste moths willingly want us to believe that there can still be a point to the sweetness of romance. The glamour of a talmudic suspicion superstitions the workaholic slaves' eager wills daily: they have appropriated the exotic spectacle - whenever they wanted to.

Shrieking stars, watchful rodents mop incessantly, arm-in-arm. Wounds, unhealed tragedies, have recently been inflicted by the persistent exposure of private lives. They proclaim as star-show hosts inbred nobodies who can't even be on top of their literary stuff. The smirking finocchins of Existence are always busting loopholes while skimming off the promising profits. Their salted lark-tongues are only allowed to sing sentimental, merry songs, otherwise they are forced to leave quickly by couched rumours.

And if the vertical spine is stretched daily as news, only the hoarsely grunting can understand and manage, and everyone is humiliated and made traitors by the horizontal gravity closer to the yellow earth. - It crawls up like poison in everyone's livelihood, like some apostate parasite. In closed cage-half-circles, even those who think they have nothing to lose will be squeezed!