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Behind the curtain, and the veil, and the canopy it's hard to find out what it's really meant to be. The more you try to sort it out the higher is entropy, and the most frequent solid answer comes: 'Maybe...' The toughest question ever asked becomes a mirror when, been unconcious, you expect to win the race. Nevertheless don't aim so high: to gain a lira in whole Big Life, even the cause's hard to embrace. The path which leads to heavy boots and hidden meanings is begging you in any case not to enroll. 'Cause almost all backpackers used to end up gleaning the shattered, smashed aglitter aureole. Some soon discovered the mysterious misfortune in the peculiar mist of graveside near the bank where river Thames is joining Styx, where have been tortured the smartest ever. With their heart on poisoned fang of folly beast named Mental Heresy Disorder they have been burnt, and squeezed, and hung on careless tongue. They only wanted to get rid of pungent odour of universal lies, which still fills our lungs. The others realized the bitter tear, (which's always following the greatest of the world with hidden grin and buried misery and fear) dug down inch and miles, raised up and pearled. The big mistake for all will be to join this drifting and try so hard to solve all puzzles of the Sphinx, but, anyway, there is no stunt without shifting when you're not allowed to leave behind some links. 13.03.2013 NikA