Against psychoanalysis? Against art? Against humanity? Why? With what right and from what perspective? Who is speaking? To whom is it addressed? And silence? What role does it play in the beginning and ultimately? How are writing, nature, loneliness, our Greek cannibalism, quotes from the Holy Scriptures, Freud, Rilke, Kafka, Yalom, Columbus, Marx, and Thomas Bernhard woven together in a torrential monologue that dares to mock the great "achievements" of our "culture"?

There is no meaning, claims the author. She creates an asthmatic labyrinthine monologue, in which the narrator is filled with a sense of weariness and indignation, as he finds himself at a breaking point of accumulated stimuli, and comments without the slightest tenderness on the surrounding, mainly Greek, space, the literary, the psychoanalytic/psychological, and ultimately the human, with the awareness that opinions - especially those - are nothing more than dice, as Philip Roth says.