You and I don’t know each other. If compared this interaction is equivalent to the transaction of the whores of Amsterdam and their chic clients, of course. You read, you get amused, you might even smile out of satisfaction by the time we are done with this piece but there is always going to be that unimaginable yet immaculate hole within you. It can be of course compared to the highs of a song and the off-brand whisky you bought in your youth or childhood. But here is where it gets really interesting. The paths that we embark on well aware of the nasty dire consequences it’s fascinating, isn’t it? I once knew a good man who chose to live at the bottom of the glass along with cigarette butts as his company for the long winters but his transition to truly living at the back of the car by RAC cost him everything. And it was particularly heartbreaking for me. I watched a man I truly loved devote his life to letters, quirks, blushing in the evening, long walks with digital brick, late-night epidemics, songs off Spotify, and YouTube. And at the end like a nice “T-point” it’s always a two-pronged choice: wrong the world and lose the big man, praise or succumb to your alleged vices and somehow you’re the whore of Mumbai. For, in the end, it’s all about feeling indecisive moments of fortuity. Which makes me want to say more. Now that being naked is no longer intimate and vulnerable I will bite my tongue off and stare at you. Because as the kids these days say: recently the line between depression and bliss is almost blurred.