Antonio Kafka is like me in many ways. He has my name and we live the same life. He looks like me, he dresses like me, uses the same colors in our paintings, the same pungent odor escapes our body when we masturbate and his life fucked him up in numerously outrageous ways as mine. We were both born in India, but raised up in Portugal. Yet, what differentiated Antonio from this humble son of a gun is the nickname which stuck onto me, Toni, with which she would address me every time we made love! I have always felt that Antonio lived a life which required no exceptional introduction, nor an eclectic characterization. He lost his mother when he was three, had no siblings and studied in a boy's school before enrolling in a seminary, which basically meant that the only scent of a woman which ever passed through his nostrils, to find itself passionately filling his lungs, were the murky evaporated sweat of his house maid. His only hobby was detaching himself from a formless world of ...