BITTER GAME

Just follow me! Roar off my busa head. Run boldly into your loss, - what is practiced nowadays cannot be a sufficient argument or complaint, even if the withered, stunted democracy must be given time. It binds a person in shackles, like a wolf with a wolf, a prostitute who bargained with pimps - combined with an alert treacherous consciousness, an insidious steadfastness, which leads to continuous, petty cat-and-mouse wars, and therefore the imagined, dreamed future is always uncertain, sufficiently fallible.

Poured down with a mass of sincerity, it melts into itself false feelings, it devours everything's hyena-smile, killer-stealth, narrow business line: a gun and a dagger that always only undertakes an equivalent service with money - it boasts of new career promises and therefore can be more horrible, more deadly as if you would do it yourself.

Those who are his captives as loyal servants end up as collateral losers, grindable cogs. And whoever is smuggled out of the grinding wheels of existence as a living corpse will not be able to help but be thankful that he will faithfully preserve what is his.

There can hardly be a struggling person today who hasn't surrendered to something: a forgotten check or a piece of paper with a six-figure sum. Or a dream job, which would have been better. From a chain of strange, clear-cut questions, a twisted logic flourishes, like a weed.

The secret password is tattooed into the brains of the brainwashed: "Survive at all costs!" "And if it's a goose, then it should definitely be fat." – This earthly torment that I was forced to endure with gritted teeth as a diligent newsman rises in me; among the blind spots of complex memories, not a single prodigal could have remained alive who could have witnessed without me!