WATER CORDS

Like a bruise, cheap, bawdy memories of slaps on the wrist pierce the walls of the soul, the everyday calvary of a murder, even though something only happened upstairs. Maybe they just left their imagination open, surrounded by bars. Maybe they recognised the little mother with the bump on her head, who wanted to pay for her medicine with the bouquet of flowers sold at the bus stop, because she hadn't eaten anything that day and her stubborn self-esteem made her wait in line at the soup kitchen.

It is not all the same how and whether the individual deceives himself, or whether the rotten-egg consciousness grows an idiotic brainwashed obsession into a veritable giant, instead of remaining open to the intersection of questions. Where did so many of you come from with tons of faecal dumps of social-social problems hanging in seemingly unsolvable Gordian knots! What can the individual, overweight, sheepish minute-man want to do, to disguise himself in seconds?!

They don't even realise that they are going nowhere, that they are just stumbling around in a dead-end job: a pay rise? Discounts, another torrent of lies about shop promotions! Come on, what the hell for, when everything is triple the price of buying freshly baked rye bread and some tasty paprika winter salami and cold cuts for a crown. In the potato stew, the potato grains have turned themselves into a shredded molasses, as if they knew what was going on from the start!