White Mania Madness is like a powerful dream. It is a desire for union with the source. Days turn into nights and nights become day. The body is all powerful the mind heart and soul are in a boundless universe. Colors abound, everything is suffused with a golden light starting from the head. It begins with the inner eye being set ablaze.

Body erect, tight as if ready to run a marathon. Clarity of vision is extreme. Everything you have ever imagined in your deepest darkest memories comes alive. Things unknown but known at the same time. It is like the painter starting from a fresh canvas, all white, yet the finished image is already present in its absence.

The winds, then there are the winds. Breath like winds, trees, flowers and water all speak the language of winds. It is all a whisper. Your lover's words, the thoughts the visions. Words are a caressing of the mind and soul. They become deep like a symphony. A word is an orchestra playing and the entire world is attached to one word. This is the potential of language you have always carried slumbering in your interior. It has become unleashed and language has become oceanic, liquid, sparkling and illuminating. The secret life of words able to transform the world. You are not alone but in a web of mutual understanding and superimpositions. Your thoughts become thoughts, yours, mine, theirs, is of no importance. You have stepped into the utterance. It is one creative act.

Roaming the dictionary is a world tour. Remembering all the knowledge that has ever been inventing new stories in order to continue. Voltaire's Candide becomes your story. Traveling the globe in search of the just and fair. Accompanied by a virtual film crew you carry inside your third eye. You are traveling to the Yucatan, to Mount Fuji, to the Vatican, to the Kilimanjaro and other known and unknown places. It is the soul which travels. The body is not always required. The soul remembers. It remembers all the lives that have been and that will ever be. It is a union of cosmic proportions. Everything has become liquid, lucid and traversable.

You are 60.000 years old. As old as a star, a light on the firmament. Shining throughout the ages. You held the light for Marx, for Baudelaire, for Voltaire and Victor Hugo. Now you commune with the angels and sleep in the heavens. 20 ton stone quadrants hold you afloat in the sky. The angels are punk headed boys and girls, safety pins holding together their neon colored stockings and hair. They are cute and very kind. They know the streets down below and up here, here where the clouds make a bed as soft as only God could make it. Tomorrow you have a meeting at the United Nations. You are going to speak about the destiny of men and women. You are here to create a new world, filled with love abundance and bliss. The urban invention machine you have named this baby. It is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. A street corner can be its schoolyard, the United Nations platform or a newspaper. Boundaries no longer seem important. This is a revolution. A new beginning within the old. You are safe with us. We heal without cutting and slicing. We heal with light. We are the new doctors coming from the future learning from the past. I walk the streets with a new kind of radar. Golden lines showing me the way. I can walk on men's heads. They become transformed. No more need for arguing. The touch informs instantly. How could you be this beautiful? Colors, light, gold, white, blue, red, yellow, purple, orange and green. Clouds of black rain. I have learned from Kurosawa how to throw the Japanese ink so it makes weighty fully saturated blotches on the camera I carry with me in my mind. This is a new way of film making. I can be in several places at the same time. I am in the Amazon Forests and at the same time I am at the Paris airport waiting for my Sufi Friends to arrive. We roll sheets of light from Mecca across the city. Clearing it from all its pain and suffering. This is the urban invention machine at work. Collective dreaming and poetry at work. We don't need bodies to communicate. We are the guardians of the universe. Sweet universe. I will take care of you. My strength is cosmic and magical. I can read your secret wishes and dreams. You have me at your fingertips. The floors of my mind are lined with joy. It is never enough.

A new universe is being born. I am the taxi driver, a queen, a poet the bloke around the corner. I am the beautiful liquid girl. The black milk you drink in your dreams. I am the pregnant woman eating pickles at three o'clock in the morning. I am Novalis, Elsa Lasker-Schüler I am Goethe's beloved. I am Suleika dreaming at the foamy edges of the sea. I am the ring lost in the sea. The eternal ring promising eternal love. I am Modigliani's blue Jewess I am Matisse's blue dancer. I am jazz I am music. Multi-centered and dancing. My feet float on air. There are golden lines marking my path. Everything is made of gold. It is all fire, warmth and heat. I am all soul and mind. The firmament is my witness. I got married in the temple of Solomon. I am a bride of the first order. The first bride who has ever been. I am the first word uttered the first beam of light on earth I am the universe separating in its infinity making room. Space abounds and it is rich and beautiful. Palestine is no longer an occupied territory. Children can go to school there safely now. I watch over them. Instead of tanks there are punk haired angels with 20 ton stones watching over them in the heavens. The children are laughing and playing in the streets. They speak the language of love. Have you ever heard the language of love? The language that gives without asking in return? Its music is the sweetest. I am told that pain arises from our coming out of God. God is like the butter and the knife. Each cut of the butter is an individual and the slice partakes of the union with God but it also severs. Hence the pain. But I am also told that some of us are born of a collective will. And those suffer less or they suffer knowingly, knowing which lessons they have learned. Jesus, the Dalai Lama, Gandhi and Buddha are born of a collective will. This is a desire. When many souls dream together then the collective is born. Hitler is the collective nightmare. He was born of people who have forgotten how to dream. War is a false way of standing alone in the Universe says Simone Weil.

I can walk through walls. My head is like a multilayered head of a Picasso Woman. Strong and firm as if the stone had carved her over the centuries. A modern myth. A modern dream. I walk through walls in order to break the voices in my head. Sometimes they become too much. The head becomes big and it swells. Sometimes it is sore like a wound. A huge gaping open wound. Then it is important to put on one of these giant size heads and walk through walls. They can be as thick as the pantheon wall, the coliseum. Nothing is bigger than I am except for God's love of course. The robe I am wearing is made of black silk, the air like a river surrounding my body. The hair is long and curly. But this head is also blue, yellow read and green. It has angles and four eyes cut in stone. It is an invincible head despite all the pain.