�I had a dream a couple of days ago, I dreamt that I was a young Japanese schoolboy who was sleeping with much worry as he had an important exam the day after. A week ago I dreamt that I was a Russian girl with an ugly face. I was walking in the late night in red square. Crying and begging the endless stars of the moonless night to have pity on me and give me a beautiful face so that my friends at school wouldn�t laugh at me. It is as if my heart is no longer satisfied by my emotions and life. My heart is seeking more, seeking emotions of other people as well. People whom I have never met or known and who most probably never existed. As if I feel that I could live their joys, hopes, experiences and pains even at a deeper plane, take them to higher levels of consciousness. As if I could project deeper value on their lives by throwing myself into their world. As if they could only deeper experience their psyches through me.�
The Indian style
I can describe India�s style in two words that can put the record straight, �complicated primitiveness�. Like a UFO made of matches, like the car of the Flintstones, and much like the mechanical spider of Dr. Arliss Loveless in the film �Wild Wild West�. Now don�t tell me that you didn�t see it!
The masochist spirituality
�Colorful in every aspect are my touches,� said Lauren, �Yet they are totally described by no color save plain black. It is mad, but it is true.�
�Want wisdom boy?� she asked as I could feel her nails scratching my back with mild sweet pain, �It is not in decorated words and spastic speeches, but in the tearful whispers of a ruptured lover. It is not in heavy bloodshed but in the slight superficial scratches of sharp nails. I will give you the masochistic wisdom my dearest flower. It is far from spankings and molten candles. It is having one�s body melt from love for him whom she loves. It is spilling one�s blood vainly on earth to make a sacrifice to be proud of. It is burying one�s head in the chest of the beloved, as if wanting to go back in him. It is the cry of a weaned child as much as it is a cry of a lonely lover... Like the whispers on the altar, boy?�