The following manuscript was found near the corpse of Anthon Crest. A renowed avvocate who, after struggling much with an unkown illness that made him nearly go insane, rent an appartment for a month with the pretext to relax and enjoy life. He was found dead thirteen days after with pencil in hand, trying to refine a nocturnal painting, a painting who despite Anthon not having any art skill, looks like one done by an experience artist.

As for the present, now I am fully lucid, I can attest that no type of veil or illusion covers my eyes, I can see reality as it truly is, everchanging and chaotic. Such moment are rare, especially for me, blessed, or damned, is the person who doesn't illude himself and live in blissfull ignorance.

Yet the facts appear confused and non-sensical now that I looked at them with clarity. So I am going to re-tell what I lived between the 17th and the 24th of november.

I cannot remember for my live sake when did it started, I only remember that one day I had this disgusting and horrible sensation, like I was doing something horrible. Food didn't gave me pleasure, talking made me nervous, playing made me anxious, sleep made me restless. But still everything was in order, things were going smooth and I was keeping up appearence. Not giving the slightest sign of how I felt.

Then it became a kind of nausea, an headcache. My usual pleasures made me nervous, extremely so. I was unable to pick the pencil and draw a straig line, I didn't draw but if I did it, I am sure that I would have broken the pen.

It was in that moment that I decided to open up a little, yet as it often the case the answer that I got didn't helped. Relax, play a little, enjoy life. Yet it seemed to me that exactly those things caused my situation. The only type of pleasure that I had was with creating and a bit of reading.

During the night I had an horrible dream, or what should have been an horrible one. A demon of some sort predicted me pain and suffering, he told me that an eartquake was coming from beneath. Ha, what fool, so little and powerless was he, so insignificant, that he had to play on pity words and home-made prophecies to scare me.

Yet now I doubt my words... what should have been a peacefull and relaxing day turned up to me a storm of anxiety and rage. It simply looked as if I wasn't able to relax.

One day I looked at the mirror, but I didn't saw my wife, I saw an horrible zombie fully clothed with a mask. A zombie that still loung for me. It was disgusting, not terrifing, I have seen way worse.

Another I looked at the clock and saw my dead approaching, and so? We all die, what do I care if that grave is made of gold and jewels or I am to rotten to the dogs? What do I care if that old man that is suppose to be me hasn't done a single great thing in his life? How miserable one has to be to accept such a happy and peacefull existence! Fools!

And yet this anger and anxt still devoured me. Teared my flesh and reached for the bones, and still I didn't know why.

I tried to cry, I tried to weep, but no tears came.

Everything and all seemed idiocracy, I was put a puppet in someone else play.

Look up to the sky! See the great old gods! Lung and cry for the heavens untold!

When I opened up my eyes again I was in a hospital chained to a bed. My whole body was in pain, I had bites all over my hands, I felt hungry, my skin had turned of an unatural white.

And you might be wondering at this point what does this have to do with the story. As I already said the events, looked without a narrative appear in this way. A delirium without sense. So let me use some addictional informations and narrative to give to this whole thing a sense.

Some days before that strange feeling came to me, on november 17th an artist was found dead in his appartment. From his left over notes and letters he detailed some sort of pain and anger that was driving him insane, this continued for a few years until, cause an accident, he found himself without money or painkillers. The doctors said that he might have intestinal cancer or something close to it but they were unsure.

Soon after another artist meet the same fate, this one left a painting, a beautiful and undecrpytable painting. His whole house was a mess. It looked like a family of accumulators house, the agents were incrudule when his neighours told them that all of that stuff was accumulated in weeks!

From the autopsy they found out that he died of starvation, even though there was much food in his house.

"It started with the loss of pleasure and enjoyment and it became an obssesion, a lounging for something." said dottor and professor Kurt years latter "the subjects became restless, nervous, unable to relax or enjoy thing. After this an overhelming urge to do something hitted them, this usually was creating. Not long after this urge took possesion of them and directed every though and action, until the subject didn't die. Homever all the subjects try to depict something, all of them from different places, and what that might have been makes me a little nervous."

If we want to understand what was happening we have to take a step back.

In that delirium of visions my reason was gonne, I just lived, lived the experience of creating. I was obsses, I was mad, I didn't eated or drinked. But in that madness there was one coherent vision, the vision of a blue dreamland with clean green rivers and giant sanctuaries. I could not paint it, every time that I putted pen on the paper and I described something was always missing, always.

What was this dreamland? What was that vision? Years ago they found a temple not far from my town, a temple to some unkown deity. At his inside they found lots of corpses and papyries. The entire temple was this one image, this one vision, repeated everywere. From the floor to the roof, from the clothing to the flesh. Everthing was it and yet everything was slightly different. Oh at what deephts of madness they must have reached together, to be always so close with all that skill and yet never managing to render the vision perfectly. Never managing to bring the vision from the world of ideas into the material world without losing something.

The origin of that cult are unkown. Yet I fell like I understand those people, frustated by their society and exiled. They found a common path, a common meaning when that vision hitted them. They had a name for it, they named it Kartychia.

Yet I wonder if on some recess of this earth someone, anyone is going to be hitted by a vision of Kartychia and never sleep at night, never relax, never even flinch until he has render that vision perfectly, and at last to die when he recognize the impossibility of his endevour.

Ahh how horrible when the fire of creation stire in one soul, when wants to create and yet is blocked. Blocked by himself, his work appears, no it is dull and without soul, his effort blocked by his old self and yet he wanders when the new self

will be born. To live in such an artificial way hoping to be happy, to kill one greatest hopes for stability.

For how common this is I still think that is insane and mostruous. Never managing to let go of the old self, always being attentive to everything and every change, and at last being defeated by your own rigidity.

This has turn into a rant at this point, and I said that I was lucid! Lucid with the fires harding in my soul! How stupid I was to accept those cures! How stupid I was to stop trying, how miseralbe I was!

I rented this home for a month, yet I doubt that I would live that long, I doubt that my body would resist that long. It's the first day and I am creating, it's the second and I am creating, my eyes are tired but not me. The third and my legs begin to break, the fourth and my vision is blurred, and finally at long last my heart betrays me. Betrays me at this fatal moment, when this version was nearly perfect! Oh no, Oh no, is that a shade? There were no shades in the vision! How futile were my efforts! The world would live forever with this false portray of the most perfect of lands!