Analysis of DECEMBER DRAFT

 Whether it's the Restless hermit or the sorcerer, I'm watching him unfold his humiliated flowers tonight. I can feel it: other signs are coming, other visions, like the full moon, the screaming Moonlight behind the bars, I am seen differently by the skeletal web of peeled trees. An zigzag, sprawling shadow first conjectures me, like a magic Sesame lock, the filth of being is attached to a restless soul.

Now the Dark is spinning its syrupy chains around me, threatening at once, then waiting-suddenly being sucked in by my hesitant, selfish attitude. I would light a lamp, if I could, but it is feared that in the only room, only one lost ghost - shadow could now remain my faithful companion.

The planes at supersonic speed, even lunar space rockets, are all gone. They took the love, the sweetheart with them. The last ray of light fell asleep. All those who wanted to leave have already left, those who stayed here will tolerate one more, though not for long. Those who are stuck here are being transported to rat-hole hospitals late, and perhaps it is better to make a will as soon as possible, as Hrabal says! Two homeless old men on the can of wine got into a fight again!

Even in handshakes, the promise of a lie withheld is constantly stretched, lurking; false-lying words can deceive, deceive, manipulate. Some stray, stray dogs slithering through snot, feasting on concoctions. The semaphore still holds a blood-red light when the last train leaves the track lazily; someone has died on the tracks...