B orn with a silver spoon on a brass platter, to a not so affluent merchant father and a theatre empress in the mid-20s and was named Socrates by the mother. Living in a rugged house of cobbled stones and a fireplace to sit by along the countryside with a courtyard for barbeque in the muddy bog, he grew up to become a wanderer. Playing with the pony and the cattle in the neighbor’s farm, he grew up thinking of vivid fantasies right from the farm to the lightning and thunder-struck stars across the galaxy, a billion light-years away. It was a satire for the merchant to look up his son grew like the Walter-Mitty living up in this world created by his very own imagination and dramatic thoughts. Sweats full of colorful dew drops in the playgrounds of water were his yard for leisure. He seemed to enjoy this way of being and living different fantasies. G rowing up as a vagrant, he knew nothing still venturing harder and faster to find out new hopes every day. Budding tall ...