A hazardous density strikes the most introspective thoughts
Ambiguity rises
as poverty reduce silences 
Nothing seems proverbial, children cry cities made of dust and agonies

Your soul will be questioning a sincere alliance with the downfall of melancholy 
Anything but emptiness would be justified 
Towards our own sad propensities, we relentlessly feel that invisible universes explode in absurd angles that strikes incomparable levels of miserable existence
As the endless rain begins to fall in the night
intrinsically     

Nobody has conceived the fugacious
Elements 
of its own
Convoluted anxiety 
We live in miserable solitary grains of empty splendor that nobody has ever seen

What we all want to desperately feel – the night guardian has irreparable expectancies that retain humankind’s morbid delusional inclinations towards an endless sleep  
Shadows move, but nobody has seen anything beyond the infinite desert of stones that is everywhere to be seen 
Saturated by an epigram of desolated cruelty
The dark cosmogony of a persistent life
Armies of shadows march towards the dehydrated pyramid of its own destructive essence
Suddenly, a million sun rises – the unexpected return that nobody has ever admitted
In a peculiar instant of cosmos drudgery 
Everything is calcined  
Cemeteries disappears 

Maxwell Bodenheim – whose birth name was Maxwell Bodenheimer – is now a relatively forgotten American poet and novelist, who achieved great fame in the jazz era of the 1920’s. His mother and father were German-speaking European immigrants who settled in the United States by the 1880’s, and Maxwell Bodenheim was born in May, 1892, in Hermanville, Mississippi. It was in Chicago, however, that Bodenheim had started his literary activities.

There, with the now legendary writer Ben Hecht, Bodenheim founded a periodical, where several individuals that would become major icons of American literature have collaborated, like Theodore Dreiser, Sherwood Anderson and Carl Sandburg, amongst others. Nevertheless, it was in New York City that Bodenheim would become a more renowned man of letters.  
​
Sadly, fortunes drastically changed after Bodenheim found fame in New York City. Only in the twenties and in the beginning of the thirties he remained regularly productive, after that he wrote and published only sporadically. Since there is absolutely no reliable biographies or documentaries about Bodenheim, everything that concerns his life, in overall, is largely obscure, and only a few facts about the writer are positively known with veracity. 

What can be said of Bodenheim for sure is that he was married three times. First, to Minna Schein, then to Grace Finan – to whom he became a widower – and last, to Ruth Fagin, a woman twenty-eight years younger than him. A little after the mid-thirties – for reasons that are largely unclear – Bodenheim’s condition and personal circumstances severely deteriorated. He even became a miserable beggar, asking for money in the streets. Despite the fact that by this time he was a published and moderately successful writer, he resorted to mendicancy for a living, and he was generally unrecognized by the people who gave him change. He was arrested by authorities several times for vagrancy, and even arbitrarily committed to mental institutions. By this time, Bodenheim had also become a chronic alcoholic. 

The death of Maxwell Bodenheim – which took place on February, 1954 –, was a particularly tragic one, and the main reason why his fame somewhat expanded; the incident supplanted his notoriety as a writer. In 1952, Bodenheim had married a woman – his third wife – named Ruth Fagin, that shared her husband’s degenerated, miserable and completely destitute lifestyle. Bodenheim did everything he could to survive, including marginal activities, treacherous, though innocent scams, mendicancy and he also wrote poems for changes. Most of the scarce money he made, though, were spent with alcoholic beverages, that Bodenheim somewhat used extensively to alleviate and anesthetize his suffering. His wife Ruth sometimes prostituted herself, to have an income, a degraded activity that frequently enraged Bodenheim. They were homeless people, used to sleep and live outdoors. 

On February 6, 1954, an acquaintance of the couple, a man named Harold "Charlie" Weinberg, offered to Max and Ruth the opportunity to spend the night in his apartment, to which the couple agreed. Once they were there, apparently – the veracity of the story is debatable – Weinberg tried to have sex with Ruth, and she was indeed predisposed to have an intercourse with him. Bodenheim was drunk, and appearing to be sleeping in the couch. Nevertheless, he was seeing everything, and suddenly stood up, enraged, and challenged Weinberg for a fight. Weinberg then killed Bodenheim with two gunshots, and stabbed Ruth to death. Weinberg shortly thereafter confessed the crime to the police, and tried to minimize his evil deed, by justifying that he had killed two “communists”, despite the fact that there is no factual evidence implying that Bodenheim or Ruth were communist sympathizers. Weinberg was arrested, considered insane, and locked for life in a psychiatric facility. The writer Ben Hecht – his friend and former literary colleague – paid for Bodenheim’s funeral expenses.     

Six months after Bodenheim’s murder, his biography, My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village, was published. Bodenheim himself, though, was barely involved in the project, whose work was commissioned by a publisher named Samuel Roth, and was ghostwritten by a professional writer named George Plotkin. Apparently, Roth had requested and paid in advance for Bodenheim’s account of his life as a Greenwich Village bohemian and respected literary icon, an assignment that Bodenheim – in this period of his life, mostly depressed and despondent – was barely willing to commit.  

Unfortunately, by the time of his death, Bodenheim was already a largely forgotten writer, and since then, his work has never been properly revived, analyzed, studied, republished or appreciated. Bodenheim remains scarcely read and debated in literary circles today. His poetry, in particular, has a peculiar charm, a picaresque and sometimes quasi-surrealist beauty, that explored in the density of ephemeral and frugal moments the most obscure and fatalist resentments of life. Never really compromised or preoccupied with form or metric, his poetry was prominently modernist, and celebrated the arbitrary agonies of existence, in a constantly candid and moderately vibrant melancholy, that, it is suspected, were typical of his behavior.  

If you want to know better the work of this marvelous – though unconventional and undisciplined, but mordacious and genuine – literary icon, the website Black Cat Poems is the perfect place to start. There, you can read more than one hundred poems by Bodenheim, for free. I hope you enjoy, as much as I do. 


Wagner

The unforgettable glorious ocean of infinite winters is the pale endless extension of a cold anesthesia, that seeks between the worlds of a ludicrous barrier the solid eyes of justice that perpetuates a lonely calmness within my soul, easily conflagrating worlds of undefined reason over a conscience of undying virulence. Nevertheless, these winds never flow over infamous temples of occasional glories. 

Parallel to these monuments of stolen voices, ignored statues of confused chaos swallows laws made of lethargy, the static apathy of an infamy produced by late storms of anger and drowsiness. Where they will go, and with what specific purpose?  

Since these days of infinite deception forgive the impetus of the black wind declining over the dying repentance of my mortal anxiety, I renounce the anticipation of my general irritability. Resounding over a dark sentiment of incongruous stigma, my position will be forever restored by the dark winds of my eyes. 

In all of this tiredness, the evasive subtleties of an ineffable cold keep worlds of unreality distant of a sincerity that never existed. And what can I reclaim, besides the fact that today is incredibly cold? And has always been so terribly cold and perpetually empty. 

Horrendous days of tumultuous forgotten beauties from sleepy times were ostensibly obliterated by the simple exhaustion of existence. Rationalizing in the evident storm of an invisible possibility that keeps my mind dormant and distant, the shadows in the vicinities of an infinite horizon soon demanded the world that I inhabit to be converted to smoke. If I align myself to the exact intolerance system that is inherently attached to my life, I will never be the same person again. But I certainly don’t have to think about these ordinary ambitions. I would never see the spring of a lifetime attached to the essence of a primitive deception again. 

The sky that I hide behind the oceans of my fears would never be taught in public schools.   

Virulent days always begin in a sordid discrepancy of nature. 
What am I doing here? These reckless days soon will be distinguished in the vicinities of my overwhelming sickness, where there is no peace, and the painful intensity of my improbable journey are eager to be fulfilled by dark and violent impulses. 

Some days could be higher, but my soul is lower than its antagonistic paradox. Only a few days before, and this system of inadvertent sleepers, on the colorful tangential zone of a never-ending humane sagacity, would definitely fade away. And this eyes, impregnated with
genuine vivacity, would soon demand real life over its horizon of false condolences. 

The different days can only make sense when survival is on the crest of a wave that never sleeps. If I survive on this rainy day, how can I be deeply distinct from everybody that I know? 

It's cold outside and it rains. These falling achievements of mine do not contribute to anything, to revive entirely the integrity of my soul. Thus, this falling world is restricted to several zones of dying rivalry.    

Every day empires in my eyes contemplate ruins and precipices of no absolute value. Impregnated with deterioration, in every empty day, an immense darkness, and the most horrifying silence of all, is afraid of everything that I consider essential to keep living. So, silent days gets stronger, and silent days pass away, at the funereal corridors of all the empty hours. 

I do not want to contemplate anything, but I can always remember sincerely the corrosive unhappiness of the intermittent days of obliteration under my eyes. And I only forget the primordial suffering and the monotonous silence that seems to be everywhere inside this invisible line of misery. Everyone is expected to control the situation, and eventually, every day will be contemplated by surreal flames of agony and flagrant declarations of hostilities. But a cold darkness engraving abysses in foreign territories will acknowledge the deleterious campaign of a defying allegiance of barbaric truculence, for all of us to see.  

The days do not come out of nowhere, and as I proclaim, we can expect normal principles to die first. And they shall become the engine capable of virtually expanding the rise of exhaustive memories, the bad weather of all the things that I could forget without leaving home today. Maybe I should not have left home.

All this rain is the phantom of a soul that never goes away. And it seems that the days, in their inability to remain irresolute, forgot to soften the spurious inclinations of the variations of all seconds which does not allow the maintenance of a machine that never ends life in a human scene. Or the trail of useless days that never inhabits the empty ruins of my heart will only listen to the prejudices of my words? As a matter of fact, before this day is finished, I have to recollect the dubious certainty of my invisible existence. 

The hours of my exhaustion simply persevere against everything that is out there. 
I get out of bed more tired and exhausted than ever. And among the major things I’ve learned in life, there are no human beings capable of understanding my tiredness, which transcends everything that is the most fateful in this world, and outside of it. 


For others, perhaps I'm just a slacker. Pernicious ignorant individuals, they will never see me in the highest days. They never heard of anything related to the scream of my animosity, or anything consecrated to the sentimental exhaustion that I have left from this point onwards. And I just don’t want to teach them this eccentric effect of the human nature. Obtuse individuals are mostly irrelevant defenseless patriarchs of nothing. 

I understand the pathologies that hurt humanity, and makes existence more degrading, precarious and difficult. The human being, by a legitimate evaluation, is a machine that is always collapsing, be it physical, mental or both, but the vast majority of people are not able to understand this, because they are all irrelevant and ignorant hordes of lethargy, completely devoid of any reasoning ability. One of the fundamental truths about human beings is that, although they consider themselves to be superior, they’re not. For the most part, they are simply animals driven by lust, instinct, primitive conditioning skills, or by the weaknesses of emotional impulses. 

This is depressing because a lot of people don’t have the ability to learn to act as a decent human being, with potential to exert the ability of rational thinking, or to develop their mental and cognitive potentialities. I understand very well the pathologies and infirmities that hurt humanity, and the abnormal integrity of its deficient functionality, while the vast majority of people are completely unable to do so. Of course, this is also due to the fact that I have a superior point of observation, unlike the vast majority of people. It is very easy to criticize me because I look slow, lazy and silent.

The gray eyes of the citizen of dust are looking towards the sordid conflagration of a mindful spirit that is never tired. The criticism is never intended to defy the ordinary principles of a prominent degradation. Everything becomes a latent description of sanity. The universal axiom of stupidity that gets close to the human eye invariably meets the sign of irreverent intransigence in an interesting question of resistance.  

But I became speechless at the end of the everlasting night of my dreams. The rest of this industry of human remains cannot even confirm how pleased I became when I’ve decided that I simply wasn’t there.

All human beings, without any kind of exception, are ignorant? Not only the night was repulsive, the most disgusting of these repulsive attitudes closes the night in an eternal alliance of mortally wounded vicissitudes. But what I think is the most disgusting aspect about human beings is how ignorant they are about their own ignorance.

Well, one thing is certain: after I erratically became stranded in the overkill of my nightmare disbelief, the night and its shadows definitely closed its curtains on me. And I never became the subject of any criticism again. 

This point of my life could have been better explored, I think. But in the end, they never accused me of anything. I was just a shadow in the wall, a visitor from anywhere, an incongruent individual that simply vanished in an ordinary day, destined to go to a place nowhere to be found. This wasn’t me, after all.  
 

Death and dark times are always into creating something.  
Constant guests for the valuable greed of the worst sickness humankind has ever seen. But I still think the worst sickness is the deadly pestilence of an involuntary consciousness. This is the end of a time that has never seen the opulence of a great impenetrable light. 

After all, this infatuated syndrome of aggressive behavior was never intended to exist, though I could be exceedingly relentless, fustigated by days of overwhelming sadness. Relentless I will be. Ready to die by an increasingly desolate starvation for life. 
 
Sometimes I really feel the immaculate overwhelming sadness that I seek; all 
that I have left is an exhaustion that keeps the sky under my head unannounced and cold. No energy and an infinite tiredness contemplate the starlight skies with an infamous prosperity that never ends. No energy will ever be allowed to compromise the principles of my salutary comfort. 

Only a perpetual restless feeling that never ends anticipates the calmness of the truth. When the major elements of an incontestable truth are predestined to seek the glory of its own splendor, all humankind can persevere through the embrace of its own deleterious war of destructive hostility. This restless mind that speaks over these ludicrous extemporal engravings of valuable principles overcomes the night that runs endlessly inside our souls.  
 
One day darkness will come to close the night. The night barely overcomes
What exists inside the realms of this life. What conclusion could I possibly get, except that I'll never really be the light that hides inside of me? 
 
These times overcomes a falling truth that renounces a sorrow desperate to portray the pain in human eyes. As the night overcomes the sorrow, a true night will always portray the darkness of my old days. The night will always be inextricably attached to my old days, destined to abandon my fallen undisputed disposition behind me for good. 

All these noises bring back the anger of ancient agonies. All these old days are perpetually trapped in frustrations that will never be as old as the universe upon which I am inserted. The fact that I want to explain that night and day is dying, and a mordacious sickness seems to prevail over a malicious overthrow. 

Nothing lasts for too long. All the stars that are bright seem clear in the purely translucent stream of your eyes. No world can understand alone the sickness that feels overwhelmed by a sense of passionate declaration. 



​
Nights falling off the sky, what will become of this feeling no longer trapped inside a dream? I came directly to the point of never denying any existence:
I’m positively sure that God knows it all.  
 
Youth and wisdom never walks together. The lucid streams of time bring back a horizon that no longer seeks friends. They are not related, though everybody's amendments do not dare to judge the principles of a time lost in a fearful judgment of increasingly monotonous delusions.    

For once and for all, I dare to challenge unclear thoughts. 
The sky is clear, a system defied by a nefarious institution for which I have never expressed any confidence before. But I don’t reclaim the uncertainty of an imminent closure, for once and for all. 

Planets are everywhere, inside your thoughts, my life, my firm exposure of principles, my desire to reclaim freedom. Inside infinite dreams, inside stories of fundamental mental decay, the declaration of fools persist, nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be found. And all I have to say is that dark days are infrequent, always ahead of me, true to their mortal legacy, they stay.

Tiredness and bright sunny days are all over me, never fearful or resentful of any unspoken truths under a blind horizon. 

On these days of major alignment, it seems very difficult to stay happy for a great deal of circumstances. Slavery, intermittent cycles of benevolence, insistent noises of shadows, a vast amount of spurious indolence always relevant when I'm tired of everything.

They made loud noises behind the windows of my backyard grievances. They made loud noises behind the voices of my soul.

Even after several years, even after all these years, everything behind my voluntary sadness precedes the dark days of my monotonous anger. 

These days feels quite the same. Even after these days of unexpected weaknesses the indisposition gets higher and higher; in the empty vicinities of a life where all days are over, finished by a malevolent precarious and imponderable constituency where all evil is punishable by men with a children-like spirit. 
 
When will come to me the end of this morbid life? An unparalleled sickness gets louder than a vicious melancholy. All this loud noises, what they really mean? The slow victory upon which my ambivalence strikes your modest behavior will never feel the omnipotence of my lucid heart. 
 
This hazardous existence makes me awkwardly insane. Nobody can strike my alternative options, as to why I don’t particularly enjoy the meticulously bestial arrangements of life inside the end of my dream. 

And I dream. No dream inside these dreams of mine makes me want to kill these insane messengers of hostility. So all that I can declare, all that I can really say is that life is like a poison. Life is always deadly. And, as a result, only a few people can understand me. 

The pain in life will always serve as a prelude to chaos? Life is a killing category of endless cruelty. Who would not comprehend something so atrociously tragic? A painful abyss of never-ending disasters is a timeless breath that perhaps will be over in a distant future. 

This life of slavery will take everybody down. 
The sky will never be large enough to subsidize or to contain all my venomous fears. The night sky will be filled with deep grief and unhappiness, the assimilation of an unexpected mental misery taking us down. 

The sickness overwhelmed by the bright stars highlights clearly the interference of its own light. And what becomes of this feeling? Life can be so cruel, but that’s just the way things naturally flow. A life impersonated by despair came to know agony. And as far as I know, this majestic element became an acquaintance of me. 

Life became a really long darkness. Life is falling and I am falling. It can be quite hard for me to process this everlasting pain, this everlasting agony that undergoes through the vastness of my heart. Will a new world ever be possible in the everlasting conjuncture of my heart?  
 

Wagner

These were relatively cold and gloomy days. 
Gray and rainy, sad days, and I settled in the atmosphere full of my worries. I do not feel comfortable talking about what I was doing or what I was expecting. Because every day was precisely the same. Always the same. I went down the empty streets of my life to buy some things, in a matter of a few minutes I came back. Everything was monotonous and still the same. I do not feel comfortable writing about what I was doing, or what I was expecting, but for now it's enough for you to know what I am. The days here are always rainy, the sun never shines, and I am always waiting for something. Something or someone that never comes. But I do not want them to think that my days are sad, because they are not. In fact, I did not even know what sadness was until recently. Curious to know what it was, I bought it for free. And they delivered to me at home in a matter of days. 

I was relatively disappointed, it was something small, I thought it was much bigger. So, the disgrace was inserted in a gentle letter, sent from a distant planet. Suddenly, I’ve noticed they had pointed out the eternal skies that were the real ambivalence of my heart. They gave me the wrong life to live? Suddenly, I was a miniature of myself. Suddenly, reality wasn’t capable of making any sense. That's all of a sudden. I do not own the ones who know everything that I love. Another interesting thing about the intricate universe that I am marvelously compelled to describe is the brave solicitude that seeks in my soul the despondency for a voluntary personification of reason. 

I left the omniscient sickness of my personal dark days at the bottom of my reflex. Since the shadows of my voluntary analysis had no practical functionality or purpose, I left all those useless days behind my sentimental stream of memory. Nevertheless, I can positively say that my days were not sad, I did not even knew sadness until I saw the shadows of my imponderable thoughts. Outside, the rain never stopped, and the sky was always dark. In the night a dense fog took refuge in the most intense chasms of dawn, and I woke up apprehensively, wanting to check upon everybody, until I remembered that I lived only with the sinister ambivalence of strikingly forgotten shadows. Then I would get up to take a breath, and watch the dense and gray perpetual mist that every morning returned to the window, involving my world in a timeless black labyrinth that whispered the eternal night into my life. I stood there, paralyzed by the free hostilities of the night, alone, but relying in the strength of my principles, albeit feeling vulnerable and frail, reiterating the nocturnal sickness of my private world, thinking and reflecting, but never with a plausible capacity for concentration, or focus, or rational objectivity. 

I felt like an afflictive nighttime specter, a man lost in the dark expansion of his own night. But this always happened, it was common, after having those sinister impressions on the mists of night. So I went back to sleep, and when I woke up all things were exactly as before. Everything was monotonous, tragic and abysmal, and when I woke up, it was just me alone, as always. The days went on endlessly, filled with lethargy, and the monotonous quietness of the weeks guarded the effervescence of my latent anxieties and impulsive disturbances. 

Well, I have to conform, I think. If this is how life works for me, if this is the functionality that governs my life, if the gears of my existence stand in this way, who am I to disagree? I justified myself this way. And so the days passed by, in the forgotten emptiness of a cold day monotony. These days were all and the same. Always greyish and anxious, followed by virulent and distressing nights, always accompanied by a dense and deleterious fog that seems predisposed to capture me every night, but mysteriously, never takes me.


​Wagner

Today the earth is black, doesn’t matter what you feel, I can see. 
And tomorrow will always agree with the solitude of my soul. 
No righteous or virtuous children would ever be capable of understanding my evident selection of preferences, not even my conscience, so to speak. Nor a good-hearted splendor will seek the sun brightly infusing life over this inexistent earth. 

Maybe the shadows of resistance will no longer remember what I see. Darkness will remain visible seeking through the darkest horizons of my eyes. The pervasive unhappiness of my terrestrial eyes would trigger thoughts of foolishness and desire able to prevent rage and malice in the sentimental devices that I contemplate before my personal world of anxiety, affliction and uneasiness. 

Can good songs heal the soul and distract the heart? If the convoluted shadows of disappointment strongly affirm that the invariable sickness that protests over the revengeful stagnation of my audacious disappointment will provide the attestation of a nefarious infestation of inexistent realms, then these peaceful days will inevitably be over. My restless years will start to disappear. So I think, perhaps, that this would be the inextricable result. 

But it’s not correct to complain. The mordacious confluence of my sincerity can drain thoughts of serenity, as well as external pacts of melancholic ambivalence. 

The antagonistic healing of a suffering that never leaves. These answers will no longer understand the content of my soul. At least for a considerable amount of time. Relegated to a mortifying silence, no one would dare to declare the dead of the night to be my hostile impatience.  
 
Tomorrow will be the day that the whole world will stay black. 
Tomorrow will be an especially indefinite day. We can never rest at the dissemination of an evil horde of incongruous maleficence. Now we are drawn to a time where it is impossible to set back. I understand tomorrow will be as fragile as a cloud in the sky. Tomorrow I will seek the eternity at a hole in the sky.  
 

Wagner 

A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog

Astute levels of intriguing thoughts. What these cities of dust and glory and happiness will do to please me? The strength of this life is so destructive and agonizing. And yet, these cities made from the pure concrete of the heart of its passionate surroundings; I can contemplate completely alone its revenues and mountains of everlasting dreams, full of richness, children and impoverished debauchery! What would be the real meaning of my treachery?   

The strength of this life never meant to be an aggressive one. This ungifted life, I think, always wanted for a higher and intelligent explanation. The permanent exhaustion, the greatest infatuation of these invisible cities lost in the hearts of stone of men: a contradictory convoluted deception, painstaking and useless. I am the falcon, the plane and the eagle that will always be surrounded by the mystery of a dignifying shadow. Sometimes I can see. Sometimes these crying skies are so deeply elusive, that I can perfectly understand the moral tenderness upon which they become valuable.      

In a world of dense opinions, the prospect of understanding is irregularly distributed. No one beyond the measures of pain can relate to this dense, surreal red tinted sky of original thoughts and pervasiveness. As the world drowns in a sea of spiraling sickness, I can only recall the fact that I'm not there. Maybe, I will never be there. 

Sometimes I see the pain. Sometimes this sordid existence was never meant to be. 
Too much descriptive hallucinations. A planetary loneliness that will never comprehend sickness as a realistic memorandum of existence.

Back to the sky of relief, the divinity lost in the surreal city of a restless nothingness. And there is nothing I can do about it. It's too much hate. But nobody seems to care about these fallacies. Neither do I. But I will never proclaim how hard it is to be me in this delusional world of demented incapacitations.

The poetic hardline of uncovering projects of doomed exasperations. This circle of malevolent intentions inflicts loneliness over desperate souls. But human beings, doomed by their inherently malignant nature, will fall over the vicinities of their own evil.    

What can I do when all these days of afflictive turmoil begin? There is no denial when the subject is the captivating accuracy of stubbornness. For me to be as ponderable as the sky, serenity has to be something impossible to get. 

I do not feel hostility. It is almost impossible to believe in the midnight flights of our dreams, when they represent too much infuriated intricacy. The varied nature of these prospects, when we shall learn from them, without giving up? Even against the enemies of these invisible cities, my soul sees the crystalizing desire of events yet to be concluded. 

A very painful life is administered in the ghostly revenues of a happiness that is no longer consistent. Since I have no desire at all to be submitted to my own legitimate, but precarious inhumane abilities, those dreadful moments of divinity will never comprehend the absurdity of reality, for the goal of interior peace. 

A very original sense of audacity built wind cities inside my heart. A very disciplined gratification that seeks life as a formidable gift of comfort and consideration. Gives to my mind the reconciliation of an empty city that is perpetually lost in a sea of impeccable trust. 

If the planetary serenity that seeks the convergence of its own redemption really finds the path towards the illusive senses of its mundane sensibilities, maybe this vast and selected ocean of human beings that wander all around this fortunate line of events can finally sense the remorse of their own emptiness and truculence. Without the barbarous attestation of worthlessness that they exhaustively search for so vehemently.     

After days of insanity, how can I say that everything will be over? The human soul may be stagnant, but the anxious desire for relief gets stronger. The unforgiving grace of our existence will never depend on the probabilities. Our entire life seems so unbearable; life seems to be vacant in an endless road of pain and restlessness.  

Apprehension is what primarily makes me discover daily the wonderful vicissitudes of life, in an almost agonizing emotional journey. But to describe the colors passing by the window of life – at least partially – will make me get rid of hostile and stupid people. 
 
It can be extremely difficult having to endure the spiritually hateful idiosyncrasies that the whole world wants to suppress. Yet this light, despised by virtually everybody, relies on the strength of something that never was, never is, and never will be.   


Wagner