I Don't Do Drugs. I Am Drugs.

Someone Like Myself, Who Claimed To Be A Real Madman, Living And Organized With A Pythagorean Precision.

I Will Be Sof Brief, I Have Already Finished.

I Dedicate This Novel To Gala, Who Was Constantly By My Side While I Was Writing It, Who Was The Good Fairy Of My Equilibrium, Who Banished The Salamanders Of My Doubts And Strengthened The Lions Of Certainties.

Paranoiac-critical Activity Makes The World Of Delirium Pass Onto The Plane Of Reality.

Picasso Is A Communist. Neither Am I.