I could not get very close to myself yet, because police are on guard.
 
For many years, I have been secretly drawing the map of the hidden tunnel. But this forbidden map is fraught with so many booby traps, mines, skeletons, trenches, quicksands, tanks, blind-wells and mad houses that my blood chills in fear. Things are made even more scary by a strange mist covering the mouth of each tunnel. A neon-coloured mist. Whatever one seeks from this mist, one gets it: a personal jet, or a bank, a harem, a private sea-beach. One gets a whole colourful world of unfettered and unlimited self-gratification. No restrictions are there in this world of the magical mist; rather, there are invisible provocations and covert support for such indulgences. Like a timid friend merely sending cigarettes and letters to a dangerous solitary convict from a safe distance. Getting really close to one’s own self is an incredible act of subversion. I keep digging the tunnels, but the police are on guard.