What if nothing except art exists in the weird universe, where moments, separated in time and space, are married and have children, in the lonely universe of clumsy lovers and funny sunglasses, in the solemn universe of dead dragons flying around, in the cursed universe of arrogant silent death and ruined temples? What if being naked feels more safe, than staying dressed? What if love exists solely on a Polaroid shot, and truth is the infected saliva spilling out of one’s mouth while coughing?