The crystal ball is a mirror and the clairvoyant is asking his ego for the answers. If he is aware, he is a fraud. If not; then shame on him for his naivety.
Worshipers of virginity, satisfaction with weakness, intellectual sanitation. These bouncers materialising social stigma, standing tall outside the club they do not understand, but prevent access to, despite the fact we now know the humours are only there to serve for laughter.

“Oh how black your bile is…!” they say and shake their heads in sympathy.

They would only let a bullet enter their thick skulls. For that is the reason they carry guns, not books.
A symbol of underdog the underclass empathy relates with; a showman stands on a cross amongst petty offenders. Generations make statues about him and everybody’s happy; for they have bread and circus. Better yet, strip the showman nude and flog him to satisfy the subconscious desires of the sadistic proles whom declare themselves “pure”. After all, the flogger also has a family to feed.

The many times people have told this tale, we still don’t even know if it was historically true. Rather close to home next to a classical Vlado Iresch production.

And in September’s second week, they are all wailing like animals in the forest, some shouting murder, others inflicting intellectual murder themselves, as if it is the very first time they have felt adrenaline through their blood. They feel their power in numbers, like they do in those massive theatres, wagging their tongues and making senseless vocalisations in front of their preaching leader, a man in a dress. Wailing at the skies that are the theatre’s roof, reinforcing “us” and “them”, voice booming through an amplifier.
A disaster is a crater in the middle of a road already slathered in massive potholes. It could have been avoided perhaps, however, hindsight always has 20/20 vision.
Then comes the other foreign threat of awareness, insignificance, the straw (or 200kg anchor) which broke the camel’s back. The veil that is slowly declining with each uncomfortable shove, even though at first it feels like shit, you shall know you will reap the rewards once the door is open! They say only women know this my dear friends, even though the suffering of men is deeper. It is not physically understood and therefore confusing.

We can see them sitting around the coffee shops, reading the stains inside their mugs, comparing crystals, concerned about a “soul”. They all want to befriend the mythical homunculus sitting in his pineal armchair because they feel lonely knowing there is nothing there, but the Id and two Egos.

I however, am not concerned. The acedia is too wholesome, too rational. The Germans they have their own version, namely Weltschmerz, a word that brings fear and many a threat of irreversible dissatisfaction with life, a malaise of the psyche. But who wants to be a German?

Some days I wake up as the village idiot, living in a state of retards. Anomie makes one carefree; the day goes by faster.
The smart employ themselves in a world of Player Piano as the architects, instructing idiots to bounce off each-other in cycles like cogs. Vonnegut was right. Shit, I should have known. He after all, started the day with a breakfast of champions.