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I am particularly fond of Foucault's interpretation of the insane: When a madman is confronted with rationality, he becomes a total blank. It's like a journey to the core of the sun, a complete darkness, in which the lunatic sees nothing. No matter how sane one is, once trapped in the labyrinth of love, he or she is no different to another. Lovers feel the pleasure, as well as pain. That is what we call, life.