try the confusion with their fluttering paper, the ink ribbons in the wind, so all sorts of questions come to their open ends are at. As you while running the fire on the wrong track, they ask it thus: What should I spend my life? Then burn the confusion to already, and glows slowly to the core, washed his Zappelglieder down slowly, first the hair, very quickly, then the skin burns brightly like a wick in the fat of the meat, then the crackling bones, slowly smolder and char them , then disappear the last stumps, and only shortly before the tubby heart burnt, there clarity about what causes suffering and then resolves the confusion.
It's too late for a naive life. The questions are asked, ordered the escort to death.
The first reason of the will is broken off early like a cork, and infected now, along with the universe in the large bottle. With the will is the deed, it is the second reason. With her first start in life, and every passion.
I think since I can read. Since that time moving to oversee the limit moment of my fading memory. Several years and many books were there anyway. This reading was already beginning primitive intellectual influences, nothing noble. For example, my romantic superstition and mysticism-my pleasure. Certainly I do not read because it is fun or knowledge, I will therefore , not because I was told time and again, I therefore must - first the book was easy in the hand, then it made that impression on me, on the I took in with him.
First, the books were then in hand. I suggested then mostly on reading. I read superstitious to end, nonstop and suffering to not even this world again and again to see in fragments and I read constantly and suffering to the history of Judaism in the words of Hananiah's, my comrades are next door, not again, not again to listen to, and I constantly read and suffering because I am the beats of the title and the cover of the books to forced, otherwise I would have any unread side need to reinvent themselves. Read instead of write. Later, one must then write sometimes, instead of reading. Because the number of sets solved after all these years in the head from the sides of the poor authors decompose gather and begin to impose themselves as other stories - so you can become a writer: As copper pressure relief valve of the spiritual library. Then you sit in front of the keys and looking for a pool.
But I do not write.
also heard too much music - so become a writer. Musician and Writers, despite the cold strangers in their mutual admiration almost the same, which explains why it is very rare to meet in one person. The painter begins to paint even after he already painter!
But I do not write.
And reading my passes. Everything is still visible, and everything is yet to be written - it is impossible to cope. What is meanwhile handled the vanities and nonsense, this is verkunstet and jacket made in which one looks ridiculous. Any new text added to the blacklist of pure thought of the dogs picked up and from dog catcher now published again to make good, by the author, the reader and the operation of the combines are cleaned.
Who if not we should write this as pure text, which makes us institutionalize the texts again and again? Who writes the lyrics that make up the idea of literature and not their morass, the texts that we believe the old way can and give hope ? Who ever wrote this? The author does not, he was not sure. When authors stand behind texts, which they almost always do, you can see them on the edge of their lyrics are, right in the right corner of the page below. There you'll see them on their page numbers, balances and waving their handkerchiefs fumble. This distracts terribly.
One should never give his book, page numbers, then it is not necessary and the balancing of the vain author figurine, it falls within the abyss. And must be deep enough to make it possible crashes when it reaches the bottom. The author has no role in the literature, he should not have! The question was raised after the man, and then whether to anything he has written. A man has to say something is not enough. Who has something to say should say it simply. Who has to write something that can write.
I do not say much. And I do not write!
The person I'm confused her quest for other versions, before me a copy of all others together. The arbitrary window once you had got to the metallic touch of the many that stuck out behind the exhibited goods desired, a mirror-like luster. So everyone looks the other to see what he wants, mostly for yourself - And one even in himself, all the others. What have I done to be like I am, is to say: Who is that I have to do to make me? Today more than ever, that look to us in every moment. The hordes of visitors, a chaotic social circle. So there now no longer simple complex person. The individual loses its complexity in the hall of mirrors, but slip into the multitude. That we have a single body, begins now to find the mental illness to the dilemma for the modern man. Each of us can be like a paper cut are pulled apart and evolve into a society that is as wide as those who found him and he just happened. Professional, and fool mother and father were here, everyone is a spirit of an old time flat, "super flat", but in large numbers. Everyone has it to be any in itself, and not only the farmer's son, the cripple, or the murderer, when one is born.
But in whom to appeal is made, at the hour of need? From whom in me, I prefer the text is to write, if the keys just a secretary, a fool? From the writers of the reflected to me? For the entrepreneur who Reflects on me? From the craftsmen, which is reflected in me? From the car salesman, a waiter, the bookseller, from all good friends that are reflected all about me? What a monster it will be when one throws a stone at its disk, as in the fragments of the eyes of the Other as mirror-coating compound eyes and her arms as tentacles ...
But I will not describe it.
make order out of his variety to another man, the many flat images are superimposed to give them scope. So close together then the author of the one is, the carpenter and the cook of one is also the mother of son who Vatermöder and the gay one, the one is just no longer be seen as a single, return as the spirits that they are all back into the bottle of the ego. It happens automatically every night during sleep. Therefore, the first few hours after waking are well suited for Eigeneichung. During the day we tumble apart during the battle in our eingebeizten items, the evening we are a congress of capitalists. Wicked beat them each other down in order to be powerful. These figures, one can not allow our books to write for us, most recently the author, it is not suitable at all.
So I do not write. I write not so. That's why I do not write. Leave me not to. I write not so. So I do not write.
I do not write.
I do not write.
I do not write.
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