THE SNAP STRING

Almost October, rainy April. The rain is under the veil; he keeps kneading and washing his limbs. A procession of crouching, hunched people on the subway. A palpability of resigned indifference. Between gritted teeth, the supposed I-truth is heard less and less! A thousand scoundrels, if he spins ten thousand webs, but breaks like the thread. The duel of fists can never stop; senseless shackle-aggression recreates itself.

Two pleasure-thirsty, exotic consumer ladies are standing on the street corner; their two ashy swan hands tremble from the cold; their carbuncle eyes reveal a whole World, while their cheap eyeshadow smudges. No alms, only cash if accepted. Dear Ladies! God bless you! The street flows with crowds of dirty, useless people buzzing; they would drive the daily hunger-like income, which is a real rarity, and only available to the stock market sharks and the Big Fish.

Some lawyers glance at the deserted bus stop; it's a typical Patrick Bateman moment, but none would spare the shivering castaway. Only one or two moon-aged shoulders, when he twitches, arched, plucked eyebrows run astray. - This is how the exotic bombshell ladies are also waiting, daringly searching for a dreamy luxury lifestyle, just in case some moneyed prince suddenly stumbles and the money can grow out of the ground.

Terrible strings are now being struck in the depths of the human soul: it would be nice to talk to a little more real friends, who do not want to take advantage of others, but with patient, tamed humility, they can give a few kind words as a gift, because they feel and know that the human filth is missing from the filth of everyday life. Law!