SOCIAL SHADOW CRAPS

Necropolis skyscrapers set on paltry rooftops only grow for some; Patrick Batemans wearing expensive Armani suits and Hugo Boss ties flaunt in limousines with tinted glass, while the party-ready, squealing kittens bathed in LSD or Escasty intoxication no longer even remember their former selves; human-wrecks on just a predictable formula.

Like a wild animal with a hunter, or a cat with a mouse that wants to play catch - the manipulable wallowing, the executioner's smile deliberately twisted in the back and the meaningless handshake, with which one should vote trust in the other person out of necessity, hardly exist anymore. Even the speaking eyes peeking out from the empty-looking crypt faces, which once belonged to radiant, yet confident people, have become silent loudspeakers.

The midnight shelter is no longer just a place for the poor, but rather a farm of petty, small-scale robbers, where vulnerable wrecks who have become homeless steal from each other, just as if they were just going to the general store to buy this or that. Because this is what this hypocritical Kupec country has become, which is constantly languishing under bankruptcy; you can't trust anyone, and if someone offers you a bite of dry bread or hot tea with lemon, you shouldn't accept it, because you can't know exactly what the other person can expect in return. Instead of the usual giving, now more and more it is only good to receive.

They can't even know who the real guests in the family are?! Those who are the actual owners of the house, or those who are only tolerated - on a temporary basis - such as passers-by, who only dropped in for a few minutes and then left. - Now getting along with the conscious lack and indifference is more and more unpredictable and difficult!