The literature for me is bums on the road. When you walk in the marmalade fog and meet Mr. Godot in the end. When you run away from Langoliers, jump into the silent abyss and find a Vincenzo Bernardelli. Bang! And then just silent madness, if was in the heat of an angry somewhere in the Latin America.
It is only literature – fictional world, a world that forces us to abandon reality and to travel without any boundaries.