Most people considered mad by other people are perfectly healthy; healthy enough not to call the others mad. I got to point out we are not talking politicians, business managers, states nor armies -- vanities. We are not talking the Axis of Evil or other Grimmian fairytales in Bush renditions. We are talking You and Me. OK. Most people considered mad by other people are perfectly healthy. They set different priorities and values. And since they are a minority they are called mad by the majority. The difference is in thought. Still, the borderline to mental disease is an invisible one; you never know when you cross it. An example: philosophy until the 20th century (19th century: Fichte, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Marx, Nitzsche, Kirkegaard etc) is a perfect guide across the borderline. There's a line of perfectionism from ancient Greek philosophy's roots to the roots of existentialism. It helps to visualize a cocaine line: you start to sniff with Indo-Germanics Zeus and Tiuz, have a groovy time with Aristoteles, a rather boring snuff with Plato, some fun with Erasmus, and end up with Nietzsche in "Ecce Homo." And you didn't even have sex in between; Marx had all the fun. You can't even blame it to the French disease. You just sniffed your brain away. Everything's white. Or black; no colours. Perfect infinity: Death. You end up considering Death the aim of all perfectionism, and you are right: perfectionism killed more people than the Black Death, and it's got another major disadvantage: it's unbearably boring. Because the procedure is always the same: you start with one thought and enter a chain of thoughts according to the rules of perfectionism, and always end up with Death. Once you spiritualized the principle it goes automatically: no matter what you see, you see Death. Something else controls your thoughts: some variation of philosophy. Everything is Rwanda and Fascism, and you think it's great because Death and Destruction of Everything is the aim. You've crossed the border. Now it's your last chance to kiss philosophy good-bye. The latest song I wrote for the new CD is called "Diogenes." Diogenes of Sinope, who died 320 B.C., was said to have been looking for the perfect human. Poor guy. In the song his head gives birth to his imagination (just like Zeus' head gave birth to Athena). But the imagination, his perfect son, is facing a problem. The song is the imagination's story rather than Diogenes'. It's weird. When I played the song for my friend Sue Foy from Budapest (someone who's called "mad" by the majority sometimes) on Lake Balaton a few months ago, she listened and said, "Heiko, you are sick." And I knew it was good.