Fallacy

This morning I was in fetal position. Where is my place in this softened horror?!,, You can hang yourself boldly!" the loser sign says. If I could have my precious time back, which I never had too much of, I would confess to my friends the ones I really had anything to do with!

Because somehow everything and everyone has become alien: objects, faces, movements, intermediate, formal-superficial gestures. You can't just trust anyone like you used to. It's like wrapping yourself in a tin foil suit with an inner, latent sense of security: Be careful, because you can only rely on yourself!" he replies.

It is already extremely disappointing when you simply sell, sell yourself out, because you need ugly money as a kind of everyday livelihood. The murderous, careerist ambitions are slowly erasing the whole sense of it. And wild-punk idiocy becomes more toxic than the cancer of some sort of intermediate pop culture.

Many of us live here, and the spaces are now touching. With adventurers and whiners, their fangs are visible even in their sleep, who are unable to see further, wanton hagglers, giggling wishers, tripe-smelling puffers, and honey-mouthed prophets dragging each other throwing mud for their trampling. The grin of tyranny is crumbling on the posters.

As if there were only two intermediate fortunes to choose from: either it is luck that raises some" excessively", or it is adversity that repels "many" immediately.

Now bondage and freedom take turns against each other; sometimes this one, sometimes the triumph clings behind it. Can no one really know who will be the winner, who will stay on their feet?!Even good luck turned away from me.