The longer this corona lockdown lasts, the more I sink between the mountains that pile up around me.
Mountains are not dead matter. They live and grow and are evil.
They are the hoard of darkness. A war rages in every mountain with millions of wounded souls.
Mountains are the home of all ailments: pots in which yearning simmer and happiness is boiled down to a dark pulp. And all this without end!
And yet there are people, called tourists or athletes, who romp around on them carelessly and unashamedly kick my misery with their feet.