My book is a diary. Or a public psychoanalysis without a premise. I write, in almost oral speech, as if I am talking to a friend about everything that concerns me: about life in the newspaper, my special relationship with my bed, food, clothes, and the unread books in my room, which form a protective wall around me. About the routine I follow in European museums, the family dinners that terrify me, and my aversion to parts of speech and punctuation marks, such as adjectives and ellipses. About my obsession with observing dead animal carcasses on the asphalt, my love for Bach and Karavatzios, Peter Brook's theater, as well as Bruce Lee's movies. I also write about the crisis, love, my ambivalent relationship with Greece and Germany. About the Left and the politicians I respect and miss, like Kostas Simitis, Helmut Schmidt, and Leonidas Kyrkos, for example. About Europe and the discomfort caused by my attempt to say something positive about the current EU. About the fruit stands along the national road, which may be the meaning of life. And finally, about the movies that make me cry, usually in the most unrelated scenes.