Apart from my own (pretty strange) truth, I don’t know what the truth is. Fortunately Albert Einstein had an idea about the truth. He said: “Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters, cannot be trusted in large ones either”. To me his saying means something like: “When you contemplate the greatness of life, you mustn’t forget about the tiniest details”. And besides my own truth, I also have my own (pretty strange) fiction – imagination, dreams, wishful thinking. It runs wild at times, it is sometimes of great help and sometimes it’s diluting me. But what fiction really is… Luckily Oscar Wilde had an idea fiction. He said: “The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means”. Or as Ralph Waldo Emerson put it: “Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures”. I guess in the end, both truth and fiction are strange. Strange things happen in reality, strange fictional thoughts come to mind. My answer to this: play with reality, play with fiction.