[...] Emptiness dwells in the apex of holiness and crime, there is nothing to wait for, no more is there any help coming. Eyes become bloodshot, only love looms somewhere on the horizon to chase away the hope of hopelessness. No one asks about anything here, no one has anything to say. There are no words here. Words are like thorns, knives, daggers driven into oneself. Words do not exist, they are of no use to anyone. Poetry writes itself in a landscape overwhelmed by melancholy. It is the touch of the burning need of an existence that has no right to think anything good about its life. There is nothing within a living human being. The living human being is but a prancing and whooping monkey. A chimpanzee with a natural cognitive bias who seeks fulfillment in vain among his peers. He will not experience it, will not find solace among the dead stalks and withered leaves, among the creeping reptiles he will only find himself – a reflection of a monster in the mirror of social caricature. A lurking jackal, staring at the futility of it all, a leech, a rotten tissue of the hypocrisy of the conscious SELF. [...]
