Foreword by the Author

This book is a product of the imagination

Carved out by pure truth

On the edge of confession

Of a man’s consciousness…

If anyone recognizes himself,

It is pure coincidence

And if a character from this book exists today,

At this moment

With a slightly different identity,

But real personality,

That is pure coincidence too.

A lapse of memory,

A mistake of the unconscious.

The streets, towns, and states might be true,

But they merely hide the pure spirit of the book:

Pure fantasy,

A description of the world of the future

We are walking through today,

A work of fiction,

A lie,

Written by a man’s hand,

Since we know no other way.

Written about the future,

We have already forgotten the past.

The present we are ashamed of.

Hidden in our asilum ignorantia*

Our entelecheia* breaks the cage

Carrying a the torch of history

To other galaxies:

Of the past,

Of the present,

Of the future.

The one reading this book without disbelief

Is its biggest friend,

And there is a kernel of hope in his soul.

Slobodan Radojev Mitric

December 24, 1982