képek, betűk

Intellectual fantasy, about beauty —

about love. Why are freckles wrong?

Abstract agony with polyester tulips.

Tiny little snowflakes in the dreams of embers?

Peeling the thousand layers from ourselves?

And when you realise the bottommost one does not exist.

Do we lie even to ourselves?

There is no free will, dualism sleeps,

materialism laughs, symbiosis dances,

and I merely mouth words — unconsciously.

Is this meant to be your philosophically disguised gaze?

Your daily suffering, imagined to be carefree?

The role you put on before speaking, before appearing?

And what if there is no excitement, if there is no doubt left?

If you are not afraid, not anxious, not sweating?

Welcome to the island of antisocial personality?

To the left, cynicism; to the right, cruelty;

ahead, in the second room, personas;

in the middle of the island, a mansion in which there are

icicles, cameras, and beautiful clothes.
Are you creating a podcast? Talking, talking about nothing?

Are you baring your body for money?

Are you making a fake AI content to sell?

Are you posting the thousandth photo of that tourist spot?
Fantasyland of bleeping beeps.

But who cares about this world?

Who cares about money? The decay of our skills?

Intellectual fantasy, about change?

About the dick-measuring monsters of our abused world?

I sleep; in my dream, I dance with you,

birds are hiding in your beautiful long hair,

ants chase one another at the tips of our fingers,

this here is a silver self-cage, with all kinds of plants growing inside it,

there is no plastic in it, no commerce...

No religion — only science and learning.

Intellectual fantasy, about progress?

I do not know, I do not care, I have no opinion.

I sleep, and as I dream, I smile,

strawberries fall into my mouth, and you embrace me —

we listen in the dark, then laugh at this:

This here is our shared

"Intellectual fantasy about love."