The joint hour of "this is how we are".

 
In your eyes, the suicidal incitement of your unfortunate little orphan still settles; you have been burning in yourself from an insatiable long time ago, your convulsions do not forgive human sympathy, nor pitying benevolence! Your shy fog-gloom has not yet been able to tear off its mask from you so that it can really be recognized by more confidential loyalists.

You can't bear the calvary drag for many days any longer; the others drive nails into your childish conscience, which you believe to be a prodigal. You are a confused hermit-ascetic, who seems to be a fakir feeling pain within himself: he would drown his pain in the tamed holy sobs of waves in the depths of a teary well - if he could. You have enough reason to roar your melancholic hysteria like a bull into the face of the world's indifference in a Jericho rage - but only if, after your self-examination cry, someone remains with you to lean on!

Because, even if you still don't believe it: someone can redeem you with a welcoming smile! You would have claimed him for yourself. You were the last among the locked and suffocated scrambles, - but you still existed because of that! And no matter where it pulls, bends, or drags you, merciless, you know that the hand of your fate is the torturous, difficult Being, you have tried everything, if your bones were broken into shards by the Being, or if envious stalkers stood guard over your head!

Because wandering times are hard now! There's no match for furious rants and bull-cracking monkeys! And it seems even more brainwashed by the many idiotic idiots who are followed by a new miracle every day! Only literature could be the only refuge and protection. To cling to the sacred oath of letters in the seventy-year-old storm of heat for as long as possible!