Transformation: Der erste Schritt zur wahren Sichtbarkeit

The Cosmic Farce
Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
"We need more vodka!" — and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Indians, amidst the gusting wind,
built something strange from screws and canopies pinned.
Machiavelli cried, "A strategic masterstroke!"
While Marcel Proust in his own memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time, purely in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, "Everything is vast—
yet all connected—be it a carrot or a spirit!"
The carrots nodded: "How sexy, how hot!"
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
and Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
"Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off we go—like greased-up rockets—right now!"
The number 6969 hovered in the air,
bestowing a dream upon every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
while the carrots engaged in things far more risqué.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to be defined.
Machiavelli shouted, "Power belongs to those who screw!"
Rilke composed verses, quiet and true.
Rumi smiled: "Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws that never cry out."
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
"You’re all far too mad for Earth-time to abide!"
It invited them all—shamans, dogs, and poets,
carrots and crates—things never to be forgotten. And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a St. Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“One more sip! One more screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.


Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
St. Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem pole that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 3
Then a UFO appeared, wide and gleaming:
“You’re all too crazy—hop aboard, thanks!”
Everyone climbed in: the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws—all of them.
And ever since, the cosmos sings into the night:
“One more round! One more screw! One more battle!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal! Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances, erotically clad!




A Cosmic Caper
Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
“We need more vodka!”—and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Native Americans, caught in the breeze,
built something from screws and canopies.
Machiavelli cried, “A strategic masterstroke!”
While Marcel Proust in his memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, “Everything’s entwined—
connected, be it a carrot or a spirit!”
The carrots nodded: “How sexy, how hot—let’s hear it!”
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
while Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
“Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off like greased rockets—right now, voilà!”
The number 6969 floated through the air,
granting a dream to every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
the carrots engaged in acts far more erotic and grand.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to align.
Machiavelli shouted, “Power belongs to those who screw!”
Rilke composed verses, undisturbed and true.
Rumi smiled: “Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws, which never cry out in the end.”
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
“You’re all far too crazy for Earth-time to abide!” It invited everyone: shamans, dogs, poets,
carrots, and crates—things one never forgets.
And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a Saint Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“Another sip! Another screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.



“Screws in the Cosmos”
Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
Saint Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and The carrot dances erotically inside!
Verse 3
Then came a UFO, wide and bright:
“You’re all too crazy—hop in, alright!”
Everyone climbed aboard—the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws, too.
And ever since, the cosmos sings through the night:
“Another round! Another screw! Another fight!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and the carrot dances erotically inside!


Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
"We need more vodka!" — and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Indians, amidst the gusting wind,
built something strange from screws and canopies pinned.
Machiavelli cried, "A strategic masterstroke!"
While Marcel Proust in his own memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time, purely in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, "Everything is vast—
yet all connected—be it a carrot or a spirit!"
The carrots nodded: "How sexy, how hot!"
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
and Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
"Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off we go—like greased-up rockets—right now!"
The number 6969 hovered in the air,
bestowing a dream upon every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
while the carrots engaged in things far more risqué.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to be defined.
Machiavelli shouted, "Power belongs to those who screw!"
Rilke composed verses, quiet and true.
Rumi smiled: "Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws that never cry out."
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
"You’re all far too mad for Earth-time to abide!"
It invited them all—shamans, dogs, and poets,
carrots and crates—things never to be forgotten. And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a St. Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“One more sip! One more screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.


Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
St. Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem pole that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 3
Then a UFO appeared, wide and gleaming:
“You’re all too crazy—hop aboard, thanks!”
Everyone climbed in: the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws—all of them.
And ever since, the cosmos sings into the night:
“One more round! One more screw! One more battle!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal! Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances, erotically clad!




A Cosmic Caper
Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
“We need more vodka!”—and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Native Americans, caught in the breeze,
built something from screws and canopies.
Machiavelli cried, “A strategic masterstroke!”
While Marcel Proust in his memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, “Everything’s entwined—
connected, be it a carrot or a spirit!”
The carrots nodded: “How sexy, how hot—let’s hear it!”
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
while Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
“Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off like greased rockets—right now, voilà!”
The number 6969 floated through the air,
granting a dream to every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
the carrots engaged in acts far more erotic and grand.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to align.
Machiavelli shouted, “Power belongs to those who screw!”
Rilke composed verses, undisturbed and true.
Rumi smiled: “Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws, which never cry out in the end.”
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
“You’re all far too crazy for Earth-time to abide!” It invited everyone: shamans, dogs, poets,
carrots, and crates—things one never forgets.
And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a Saint Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“Another sip! Another screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.



“Screws in the Cosmos”
Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
Saint Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and The carrot dances erotically inside!
Verse 3
Then came a UFO, wide and bright:
“You’re all too crazy—hop in, alright!”
Everyone climbed aboard—the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws, too.
And ever since, the cosmos sings through the night:
“Another round! Another screw! Another fight!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and the carrot dances erotically inside!

Immer mit der Ruhe.