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    Prefaces of short, curt coercion, I report myself in the hall of mirrors of myself, inaugurating a new, neurodiverse Carpaccio Fadesse, between the floods and as a self-confessed bottom-up of the indomitable Brach.

    Today the aftertaste of Urban Monk is canceled, the painful memory of unenraptured months, as if my being were a female period.

    But it was still disgustingly complex to disentangle myself from the unrefined shibari dreams of this polyamorous Covid-Slut 19, to stand up to a social idiocy that obviously caused fewer and greater problems at the same time. I can calculate my new risk with a cynical smile but on my own responsibility.

    A little wiser. A little more wounded. More than ever the author. The describer of the cloacal coma in which Human Beeing hopes for a miracle.

    The last kilometers proved to be difficult, mentally and physically, also emotionally, but the feeling continues to be disputed here and in everything artistic autism. The mental element has been added to the spirit, the nervous system is no longer anatomically transfigured.

    Biochemistry condoled. Inner quantum roaring is perceived as speculation until scientific discovery, but without building castles out of it.

    Never trust a naked bus driver

    He/she usually takes you to strange places, maybe he drives you in a square circle. That may have happened to me, but I still have a few cat lives left in store, a dog life was never planned. And so I pull myself out of trouble.

    One ghosting bitch later and some interesting dates with the villainous Something, who turns out to be the leading potato republic, nestled in a European soon-to-be country, even more in love with existence than ever before.

    I sympathize with the weird, but the lateral thinkers take away the pleasure in this metaphor, so I'm better off continuing my snobby conversation, a dandy of syllables in a world of purposeful banal fantasy.

    My Persian stung me a second time, now she can go back to her distant middle-class doctor mendacity. If the receptionist tells you on your first visit that she would never do check-ups or use scales to check if you are overweight, then you should think about the naked bus driver.

    And now there's an orthopedist and a dermatologist, I can only ponder in endless amazement that this is still a good health system and how threatening a bad one must be.

    Emigration canceled and financial stability shifted into focus. Framing my language into pieces of silver, tagging my creativity under the skirt of an embarrassed sleeping car sign, so if you recognize me, I'm excited to be looking for a job for the first time in my life, you should try everything once before you make a final judgement.

    It won't be easy for me and the potato entrepreneurs, but where something slowly starts to feel like the world again, like a purring, ejaculating planetary blasphemy, like a shimmering kiss of hope, these are business aspects, I think I can get along with it very well at a certain level. Richness of words and carelessness of images are as rare as my Significant Others.

    Open mouth

    instead of honey lubricating. Still far from momentum. But I myself am accessible again. I just don't want any options that go wrong, so I'm allowing myself to get off to the best possible start.

    That might sound like a coach, but you are constantly being told “You can’t do that” or “It would be difficult to do” “That’s great, BUT…”

    All these endless escapes from the ordinary and their disciples. Of course, people quickly try to bring America back into the game, since Biden has become tolerable again, people are trying to hit everyone over the head who is over 40 and think so. Implement the fall of the Iron Curtain, the rise and the future fall of a China in which more and more young people use minimalism as resistance.

    Of course, it is still clear that this illusion of possible success should not be the goal of someone who, on other levels, is given over to the new, fresh and more important Walkabout of another, less bizarre future construction.

    Retiring from being a monk at fifty ultimately means becoming a tribe or am I a bit self-cynically stupid? But it was already in place before the pandemic and it's not for nothing that I've learned to love my own concept again in recent times.

    So I sit in the cool humidity, growling over and over again like acid, saying I'm a dreamer, prudery, but I find appealing hoaxes and bugs in the potato thinking and life of my fellow citizens that could perhaps be turned into something good.

    Cultural funding, also at the European level, social and regional redistribution energies. And a lot of private, less stale commitment.

    The Unreported, Beyond the Spotlight on One in 1000 Lielead!!!

    My own drunken existence, craving and fearing the spotlight at the same time. I preach water that is hard on myself, I'm almost a little too stubborn when on the other hand I present myself as so flexible.

    I'm starting the big design again, I'm throwing words and deeds at the fairground stall prize. Sometimes my poorly nurtured self-love bleeds into me, it's all just a pipe in the woods.

    But she can't get away with it for me because the nice, tasty appearance, the shiny startup is usually only a 5 percent chance of success in an office on the third floor with IMacs leased from other people's angel money and is in no way more sustainable than my REM phases. In that sense, I've been a start-up all my life.

    We can also smash the slingshot by throwing stones at it. However, whether this can still reach the masses is questionable at this time. Greta gives hope and the evidentiary events regarding climate or capitalist/despotic madness. But so far the countermovement has been too timid and not angry enough.

    And has failed to act strategically like the system-preserving reactionary elites. And far too little against them personally. The pandemic one

    Burning glass

    man in black and red suit in water

    worked for me in every way. A bit lazy and distracted, I just couldn't muster up enough motivation to do something in the virtual world where I'm at home anyway. For me, it's more exciting offline than adding a little Zoom to my everyday life.

    I'm good with it, I can feel, grab, touch and pamper my body. I'm a spa of grounding. The quirky thing I love to indulge in and do in hat making is a Sufi trick. I've been serious all my life.

    However, there were always vague reasons preventing concrete implementation. And I also have to say that beyond Graz am Meer, the small-minded person beats me up from late to early. He was/is the master of just not achieving anything great. I mean something different than before about spotlights and success.

    After the Chiara fiasco, I had to brood and reconcile things for a while; I didn't expect the pandemic until the next decade. Now I am and I feel worn out, defiant and lonely.

    Which brings us closer to the title of the post, because writing as the central function of my entropic ballet is perhaps insatiably relentless, but mostly begging for dopamine likes, whether in bookstores or Instagram, is secondary.

    These are add-ons needed for me and my damaged neurons. I find it all the more impressive how I've sneaked through this incarnation over the years, hardly more neurotic than Ally Mc Beal. Hardly sadder than Robin Williams. I have a better handle on this than Jim.

    And the more psychiatrists and psychologists from my own generation I get to know, the scarier not only do I find their profession but the more tenderly I embrace my past fails. And question what all the peer groups, supervisions and all the leveling up are doing for you.

    So caution aside, curtain up for a little more horror show, I think with the Multipurpose Blog Network explained in another post and my resulting simple here and there and with this and that ambitions everything is on track.

    Limiting myself to recognized art forms still weighs on my stomach, which has, by the way, recovered to some extent.

    How I as a whole defy the lovelessness of the stranded nomad and turn back into the fire of pleasure. Whether in a mindfully managed Blog to which I stand by name and intoxication or in the desirable wonderlands of mystical Jungian flows.