because otherwise we are not poets: unholy demagogues without disciples, deceiver, devil, anti-people. There are those natures who set out from the death chamber of a sad and indescribable inadequacy to understand their fear. The inner, wutschäumende sea can not and will not otherwise, followed by eternal necessity of the painful path of the separated and lonely burlesque of art. What a pleasure!
And since I now know how it behaves - with 25, as a people of my state of highest Decency is usually her - mocking I-capable, smiling, with all the powers of the art equipped all hardships and bitterness, fear, and audacious idea of one and serious comedy to dispel this hoax to tug pilot light to do, and redeem .
we sell ourselves in icy heights, then in the risk of great freedom, insanity and death, we can freeze things with our eyes winter wind, they impress, to avoid being forced to overcome ..., but who has ever been overcome? Our way of size but only the attitude of a simian Poss fool, a sad clown - ripe, but not funny, but sad, full of irony and misery (-?) staged, well-lit. That's the tightrope of our artists guild! Our rope stretched between life and art, between a living there and the icy and dark dangerous here ... our double bottom is paved ... but someone has to dance on the rope, one must remain. Terribly lonely and all. But fearless and big? You understand what I mean! Disparaging
recorded perform a resolution view the empty housing, inside which only soulless dismay and sadness salvaged their huge chain Urtragödie. This is the inner cohesion of the world: the bloody game from the end of the joys and ... from the not too distant climes sounds a familiar credo: Renounce shalt thou! You ought to! This is the eternal song, the hoarse singing ... every hour.
But what is it for a contempt? It is yellow and full of wanderlust. Much is hidden desire lurking in it, pain and hope of redeeming love flash concealed out of the long preparatory cloud. But too far from the tragic lives of the District of donkey Banal-naive. We move among people like the albatross caught on the rain-slicked cobblestones of naughty people.
But how to save the project? Must it ever be fed to a saving bank? Is not it already because of his fixation on the here and now justified forever. Has not happened to the silent knowledge of the inner struggle of the spirit against the body and its allies, to do something? No "you shall perish!" But a ". So wanted and I want it, it'll probably do it like that" The rest is not silence, but the shocking, mysterious call of the art imaging, and echo the cry of terror in order to proceed. Lure and shake, seduction and confrontation - that is to square the circle.
But here does not end the danger, not the trials and tribulations of eternal night. From it, it is relentlessly, in monstrous time permitted the fluctuating figures bear firmly against the East and to free them from the bottomless pit of the larval state.
The artist is the ultimate consequence of life, and perhaps even of human beings.
