Do You Know Me? It is Me.

One of more interesting titles that regaled my youth must have been the Herzog. The guy cracks up a little and starts writing letters to people - young, old, famous, neighbours, alive, dead - giving them a piece of his mind.

Now, I have always had a real knack for taking books a bit too seriously. Because it is not only that you can create fiction in any way but also that you can bring to life, as folk would have it, wild fantasies. The limit is probably there for those with a liking of escaping their horizon imagining spaceships, but, hey - there's hope for you too.

I am right now writing to the local gay webpage for publishing a sleazy report of one of those unsuccessful cases of individuation. The guys gets a package tour, imagines himself a world traveller for going to Tunisia, thinks he is having it all for he thinks he is exploiting the boys for a few dinars and that he found a paradise on Earth. He even announces writing a book. Pathetic.

But that they should publish it. This must be a result of one of those great inventions of our race - networks. Why is it they would rather publish a known faggot than someone who is crazy enough to just write to them? Hell, I have a banner at the biggest daily in Croatia for my small-scale poetry project just because I know a guy.

This was even encouraged. I remember those fallacies of reaching Mr Clinton through four or five personal stops. Now why would I do that? Neither sleet nor rain they say stop them.