Analysis of WANDERING THE CROOKED ROADS

My colombus-egg teenage dreams were shattered again and again. In the depths of my darkened repository-room, im looking apart, my relationships - if any - have become as light, as smooth as bad, abscessed teeth loosened, ruined. For with struggling, enduring loyalty I have left with Carthusian-nemian intent those who have deceived, betrayed, or just trampled me in the mud at their pleasure.

From the fierce, gyehenna-crossings of roads, as from those hellish Daredevil pucerai, I have deliberately turned aside and rather withdrawn. Now I feel only that I have given up so much in so many useless, useless decades, because I should have lived somehow. And since then I have been treading on ever-sinking, shipwrecked tomorrows, and as everywhere pits, dams and obstacles, where hyenas and wolves have torn the childish Ego. I feel my life hanging like a hangman's noose on my neck like a scabby necklace.

The bastion of my seven-locked existence, like Bluebeard in a fairy tale, grows lonelier and lonelier, almost hermit-like. I ask myself again: am I to be a haughty, vile servant, who sees neither good nor harm in others, or a tame beast, who cares not with a brain-washed vulgarity if he is trampled underfoot with malicious intent?!