I was here when he of whom I write wasnt gone yet. Though now I know, yes.

Few concepts today are as over-used as the concept of “reality”. 
It is used in essays, political discourses, school lessons, financial predictions, psychological theories, scientifical arguments and a thousand other spheres of our rhetoric.

This concept is not only used but proclaimed, printed, measured, calibrated, globalised and imbued in the soul of us all. 

This is the story of the writer who didn’t know how to write or read.

This is the story of a man unfit to cling to your concept of reality, he became a refugee from it and offers asylum to all those who flee it out.

This is a story about an encounter.
This is a story about my encounter with this man.

An encounter taking place in world where getting lost seems like the only way to walk.
A working world of words shaped for the mavericks, the weirdos, the odd men and women, the left-out, the lone wolves, the lunatics, the destroyed, the unfits, the misfits, the would-be and the has-been.

I would like to sleep in order to find back the Safsaf Café.
In order to surrender myself to the illiterate poets and dream
once again.