No mince words

couldn't stand the grey shimmer of the day, it's like an old wall that you wish had a wrecking ball sun knocked down, whenever the days are less favourable it's in a hurry, killing time instead of flies. Grandma has to pay, Thailand is opening its borders.

As his nickname might now be, no mask in front of the mouth.
And even if no one eats as hot as he feels, the thankless coolness between November and February is his eternal nasal constriction.

Strangled, guaranteed, distorted in provincial writing

If he is tied down for some reason, he limits himself to minimal contact with the outside world in organic food stores and by means of extensive dating profiles with which he prepares for better times.

Add to that some Nedflieggs and Amazon Breim, and you can get through wintry Austria without noticing the predominant trumpet cultures.

In such cocooning episodes, the goddamn formerly white wall becomes a snuffbox of the artist and inventor's imagination, opened by picking his nose. A Post-It gallery of the metareal.
As if sticky tape could refuse to take part, they can, and sometimes on indeterminate days it snows yellow, blue, green, pink notes on his home office, which is neither home nor office but somehow both.

It's snowing sticky notes, the leaf analogy would also be correct, if winter lasts as long as we are threatened with in Game of Thrones, then one day it might drown in a sea of sticky notes.

No mincing of words and at the moment no mask in front of the mouth but also no foam in front of it, the colorfulness of the notes was wisely chosen in an ironic masterful homage to the rainbow flag and the multicultural intergender ideals of the LBGT idea.

Writing is, like any good

Art

a magical process, a creation. An original imagination is beamed into the spatial-temporal intersection of the moment and its consequences. Art in the sense of the creative, not the normative.

The production is a repetition of the actual, sometimes in a modified form, unless the prohibitions and absurdities of the widespread psychopathological mob make such a repetition difficult or even impossible.

From this perspective, the louse on the liver is not a fully developed rainbow fucker, but at least a sympathizer.

He always admired painters, until the light of the photogenic gave him the opportunity to be one of the actual. Exuberant to the point of movement, one must dance towards the word and pay it the homage it deserves.
But all of these are just outlines of future forms of design, and in his notes and snippets one finds more and more of the impudence of unsupported nonsense instead of philistine damnation. Picasso would have understood him. (W)einstein of course.

These two toxic bucks. And does that make him a toxic goat too? The other day he told the hummingbird that he defines himself as a lesbian male. She liked this concept, as she generally likes what he throws into the room in terms of breadth, people in shaken totalitarian schemes or under such state structures like his language. His ideas and manifestations. They give them hope and the feeling that dreams still count.

The obnoxiousness of an Erdogan should only burden this rut to good fortune on Sundays, he was quickly back in his little organic food market, at the mercy of the silliest things, here too, like kitchen roll and a kohlrabi that changes hands for two euros.

Which is strange in such sustainable businesses, because no cabbage arabi in the world is worth up to half a day's labour from a seamstress in Bangladesh even if no one has sprayed it except a lonely vineyard boy masturbating in the field on his way home after an unsuccessful date with Mitunters ichs mit jeder machens.

But she is another favourite figure. From the Haft clan. From the Arseniks.

No kohlrabi, that's another one of those supply chain management black holes that affect poisoned and non-poisoned foods alike. And that can't simply be changed with urban gardening, let that sink into the minds of a smog-infested metropolis like Graz.

There's a little plant me garden on the railway station belt that makes you feel planted.
And where should it be different, have you ever dusted with the window open in the city of your choice, in some areas more in some less and yes, when you come home in the evening you only see the madness in artificial light.

But that doesn't matter,

The main thing is urban gardening.

Because Monsanto is more dangerous than a traffic jam with farts. It's not called Hellti Gardening, but fuck it, the kohlrabi and parsnips and all that are paid for by the basic income anyway.

In a way, from the economy, because the economy, the economy is everything, and does everything and does everything for us. And the kohlrabi can cost 2 euros.

The former Minister of Social Affairs is happy to help manage the finances of the lower classes. She is a powerful being. She could hardly suffer from hunger, so far, that seems as clear as the energisers who work and are paid in this country are strange. Yes, he is an exciting stalker, he watches the old woman through a telescope, he doesn't like to get too close to her.

But steams in the rest of the turquoise and brown shit in many corners and ends. But he doesn't get that far, he slowly realises that he doesn't eat enough protein, and after a few years of meatless pleasure this becomes increasingly clear.

That the vegetables, oat flakes and potato rice side dishes without a main course don't provide him with enough protein. Because proteins are proteins, as he is slowly realising.

The only thing he can trust are the beans. Although, when he looks around the organic shop today, and especially after the lunch break, they flock in huge numbers, everyone always knows what they need and want, only he stumbles through the market for four hours, clearing everything, or at least in and out, four times.

Who looks around the health food shop

to finally get a woman, he is already very worried.

Even if nobody worries him, what he sees worries him.

Most people who turn up at the shop are by no means in the best condition after a certain age, they look as grey as the day, vitality is lived rather minimalistically and perhaps dragged from yoga class to yoga class.

All these beautiful people that you can look at anytime and anywhere on Instagram and Happynetz or in the Peta feed, no, not so much there, don't exist. Here, and even if it is a little bit due to Graz as he fears from many tram horror memories, maybe there is something in the water. Yes, it is Grazers who stay in Graz and drink this water calcify, inside and out they resemble the water pipes from the post-war period.

But maybe Graz is also a secret nuclear waste dump. The people here are nice but terribly ugly. He thinks about it.

It could also be due to Austria as an idea and a people. There is no stable, mindful midlife generation here, most people's psyches have been crushed in their youth. By people who have also been battered. And it gets better from generation to generation, but you can see what happens to a nation of smokers and drunks when their youth fades.

It's not something he wants to or could discuss or solve today, but it's scary to feel. A 5-10 per cent layer of wealthy people and 1-2 per cent good looking vibrant, vital, healthy fellow human beings. The rest have arrived in a constantly self-poisoning circle to Nowhere, and the whole amazing effort of today's world is endeavouring to keep the poisoning somewhat under control.

Instead of switching off the poisoning from small to large. An ingenious strategy for perpetual economic growth. As soon as people are satisfied, the economy would be dead, Mrs Dumbass Minista.

Organic and chemical-free is prescribed for babies and nobody asks why because only for babies.

He has now actually managed to somehow get his shopping home overpriced between the poisoned people, who are so nice that it almost hurts to see them like this. But with the bag and the logo of the organic supermarket, he feels better than if he'd just waded through the spit at Billa or Lidl.

There he drapes the overpriced, at least not quite so poisoned, treasures on the kitchen table to find out whether he can be satisfied. It's not quite ideal today. But he writes quite well and all in all, a happy start to autumn.

Before he can think any further about how much which nuance now predominates

Finch

The highest of all the highest instances of what he could be.

When the everyday rubbish Fidibus scrapes off and throws into the black bin liner because he thinks waste separation is just a joke. We are your landfill and are supposed to keep separating until one day we are made entirely of plastic. Only our microbiome will still be organic and it will control us via the nerve pathways as if it had reins in its hand.

But no longer the good old fragile biorespace ship, but Homo Plasticus.

Fink is bloody brilliant when it comes to addressing the really important things. Not only does he not mince his words, he doesn't wear a mask anyway, you could also call him a disgraceful mouth. And only by writhing and disgusting through the provincial in his soul is there any hope of detox, because Talke may be the worst juggler doctor since the introduction of the hipocratic oath, scientific as a dead cow, but he certainly brings southern Styria a tax or two with his rampant inappropriate fee models, which are only surpassed by the joke of peace eating nonsense with which he quickly jumped on the bandwagon before people with character might have made a little living out of it.

But the Venus of Willendorf, the doctor must be allowed to say, had breast cancer and after listening to a healing meditation the very next day, the tumour burst outwards, which is mega rare and really doesn't sound very coincidental. That means basic competence is possible for every bitch.