My philosophy, if I must give it such a name, is not to be seen as universal or all-encompassing, but rather as a kind of “weapon support” for weary intellectuals on a metaphorical front line.

 My philosophy, if I must give it such a name, is not to be seen as universal or all-encompassing, but rather as a kind of “weapon support” for weary intellectuals on a metaphorical front line. For those who are not on the front line, and especially for those who have never seen one, what I write will appear only ridiculous and pitiable, or, at best, incomprehensible and confusing. My words do not come from a relaxed and peaceful place but seep, as it were, from behind bars, out of the heart of the chaos of a degenerate third-world country. I write for those who feel completely invisible everywhere, for those who do not abandon what they know even when everyone mocks them, for geniuses who live lives of seclusion in the forests, for alienated observers in crowded rooms, for solitary walkers at the edges of cities, for those who speak only to the sky, for those who live their entire lives in imagination, and not for those who spend their days moving their mouths, screaming and laughing, filling the air with sound, and floating comfortably in the anesthesia of noise.  I could be a kind of kin to prisoners in solitary confinement, who see nothing but gray walls, and to forced labour camp workers, who toil all day just for the next meal—but not to the world outside.