The Hell With The Newspapers.

Either I've Invented A Whole New Logic Or, Ahem, I'm Not Playing With A Full Deck.

What Is Possible And What Is Not Possible Is Not Objectively Known But Is, Rather, A Subjective Belief On The Part Of The Author And Of The Reader.

Madness, Like Small Fish, Runs In Hosts, In Vast Numbers Of Instances.

A Weird Time In Which We Are Alive. We Can Travel Anywhere We Want, Even To Other Planets. And For What? To Sit Day After Day, Declining In Morale And Hope.

Because Today We Live In A Society In Which Spurious Realities Are Manufactured By The Media, By Governments, By Big Corporations, By Religious Groups, Political Groups... So I Ask, In My Writing, What Is Real? Because Unceasingly We Are Bombarded With Pseudo-realities Manufactured By Very Sophisticated People Using Very Sophisticated Electronic Mechanisms. I Do Not Distrust Their Motives; I Distrust Their Power. They Have A Lot Of It. And It Is An Astonishing Power: That Of Creating Whole Universes, Universes Of The Mind. I Ought To Know. I Do The Same Thing.