DREAMING ADVENTURER

It's not the light that has gone out, it's just the world has changed, so weep calmly, cowardly-boldly, that you can no longer be who you used to be: a servant-like Little Penguin-man, because New brutal-dwellers are coming, and your mud-palace, built of Adobe, is about to collapse.

A tiny digital photo and voila! The Masterpiece-miracle is ready! Supermodel Angels staring at you like that, waiting for your every wish. What a dazzling, superficial and useless collection of glitter, silver-plated cocktail filters. Even your eyes will hurt. What kind of manipulable Janus faces surround you, like shape-shifting chameleons?! Are the Dead really active, perhaps, only living in our branch?!

You look at the back of your hand on the table; it fumbles first with the pencil, and then with the blond lock of hair given to you by The Lover; it is a priceless little trinket intended for a precious future. - It's not the light that goes out! Don't forget! Only the useless, feeble speck of dust became ever more despicable, and no-good-for-nothing stupid-sucker!

You're already stuck in the early night thinking. What a hibernation-Frost has suddenly become in your cell-hole room; first you wear leisure clothes, then you also wear a robe, with knitted gloves, and with it literary verbs on plowed manuscript sheets!

And as awards are presented, and yet another useless, ego-creating accolades, you ponder in yourself: Where have the truer, nobler, human-friendly literary historians, who have not yet been infested with interest and utilitarianism, gone?!