This is the page from my intimate diary, red album. Images appear in it as answers to big questions like these — what makes intelligence intelligent? What if the conscious mind is possible only inside the living body, as an answer to the question of survival? And is the desire to be free from reality the very reason that makes me dream my beloved naive dream, at the end of which I do not exist?

But I am here. I’m alone. I’m inside of myself, and around it is you know what? That’s right, me. And my dream is real only while I’m asleep. So I continue.