Sindustry

When the daylight fades out into thick darkness, I open my eyes. Only then, when that loathsome honey of the sunlight is dead enough not to bother my inner gloom, I can stare at this world again. And I can see much more, than anyone of mere mortals. That's not very difficult, to be honest... So theoretically anyone can have it my way, the fact is that they used to believe in their own weakness ... But that's another thing. I don't want to worry about that again, everytime it reminds me about my own intoxicated dreams. Forget it. And now I can see blood on angel wings. Hypocrisy of the "righteous", shattered sky all over horizon... This is the world we used to live in. Cynical sindustry. I wanted it to be another. I wanted to love it, to make it better - for anyone, wanted to teach them all how to win. But... The ones above decided to kill me. All right. Said and done. The gravestone is getting colder and heavier... But now think: who of us is more dead?
I don't know how, but I survived. And now I'm black enough to spread my wings over the sunrise...

Ripples in Memory

As long as the trembling lights at the top of the candles remind us about their phantasmal existence, we still remember those ones who died saving us. The most attentive of us can even remember some faces. We live our lives as we used to, never changing the habitual way, and every year at the same day we get reminded that it's time to mourn again. How cynical.

And when the candles are burnt down, when only some diffluent wax is left from their original strictness, we're happy to forget everything again, and like a heap of puppets wait for another year - for the Master to come and to blow the dust away from our faces and memory.

Maniac Devotion

He told me I'm maniacally devoted. Enthusiastic like a madman. Devoted in general to the Target. But he - and the others all the more - will never see behind the glass. The Target, the ravenous altar I'm sacrificing myself to, it took everything most of people hold on to. They keep saying that's in vain. They keep invading my own darkness, where I bleed to remain creative, telling me that I'm nobody, just a faceless shadow, and the only way to get a face is to be like them. Hell... They've been given so much freedom... But they're unable to handle it. They don't use it. In that card city they count to be huge, no one dares to see its miserability. Hiding behind the conventionalities, who is brave enough to hold his head above it?.. They don't even need this freedom to be free. This world still prays to its numerous Big Brothers, feeling so safe behind the doubtful authorities - and every minute drops a brick in the wall... Why do we hold so tight to a self-built prison? Maybe because it's self-built...
I'm devoted to the narrow angle of my freedom. But it's a desperate devotion.
He told me I'm maniacally devoted. Enthusiastic like a madman. Devoted in general to the Target. And still, saying this, he's the only one who understands my passion.

Fever thoughts

If I could look back I would know what it is... But I can't turn around and catch a ghostly form of what dies with every merciless second. It is still breathing, but too weak to wait with the funeral. So I buried it deep inside of me and forgot the location of the grave.