Prologue i. A letter from the Artist

“They say that great art is born in the worst of times, but honestly, do artists yearn for tragedy? I certainly do not. I seek clarity, pride, and spirituality, whilst swimming in a sea of visual ideas. This water would cleanse me of the worries I’ve gathered from the real world: The physical pain of disease and ill health. The anger and disappointment in myself. The broken expectations of friends and the ones that I love. The cruelty of the human race, the fear of deceit,  the lack of returned feelings of caring. All was washed away from my mind through creativity. At least, that’s how it used to be. Now the canvas lie half painted, with drawings of depression. I hate them. I hate them all.
   If the water is filled with poison, not only is it dangerous, but one would be mad to expect clarity. It seems that I have... soaked my mind in pestilent water. Maybe I am sinking? Everything seems worse. I can’t... see anything, or feel anything... I'll rest now I suppose. Maybe I will gain enough strength to surface? Maybe. I am so tired. I will give myself time. Hm. Time is good. I need more time to think. To rest. I must- keep them away.”