Once again I realized: the aura of Indigo does not save and does not protect. It can become a magic carpet, turn into seven-league boots or a heavy cross – but it’s not a guardian angel to deflect troubles with its thin hand.

I was amazed at how routine, how mechanically this most powerful intellect was created. It was no burst of inspiration, but almost physical labor instead. I asked myself: was it the same way for God?

We grew up in a place without a hint of love. Perhaps this was the single thing that bound us forever.