“If only there was a way to get out of here, to see the sky again. To overcome all demons, to become whole” the writer pen had again stopped. His ink became dry on the page. It wasn’t tiredness that he felt but something quite different. Slothfulness was overcoming him, all those things to do, all those noises, all of those voices to talk to, it was too much to bear for him. There was no solution, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. In both cases, he lost and returned to his abyss made of despair and anxiety, this undefinable anxiety which he never managed to see the root of. It was bad but not as bad as two years ago. He had grown since then. Now he was a different man...but still too weak.

He looked at his room, a squalid, dirty room without warmth or decorations, it was a hole where to die. A corrupt hole in the shell of the world where people like him went to die and be depressed. Like those Russian characters of a long time ago[1]. Depressed, anxious, confused in a black storm in which faith was the only way out. He had no faith to hold to in the storm. No God to save him. No angel to talk to. No friend that could support him. He was in utter solitude a mix a broken desk. Alone only with his thoughts and ideas. The manuscripts talked and talked...while he was asleep when he woke up when he went to bed. All those ideas...wasted. All those ideas mixed, all those energies wasted. Life was really a dark mael storm that no one could escape. No priest, no monk, no abbot, no businessman, no philosopher, and definitely not him. He was the most condemn of them all. Maybe it was because of his parents, maybe he really was born under the wrong symbol, maybe it was because of his character and choices. He didn’t knew and didn’t cared and this point. All that he wanted now was to sleep soundly upon a warm bed. Away from all of these noises and sounds, away from all people. To put himself in his ivory tower and never coming down. What a beautiful life.

A small smile appeared on his face. “What an absurdity, probably I wouldn’t last a week without doing anything” this was life in the end. A meaningless void in which some people oriented better than others, some believed their lies more than others, some had more faith than others. He wasn’t in those groups, he didn’t knew what to do. And everywhere he looked at he saw only problems and monsters. He was poor, dirty, incapable, and arrogant. He didn’t learn anything with his education. He wasted his childhood and youth. He was the worst beast of them all. One who thought himself superior with his misery.

> at this point that was one of the few manuscripts remainings >

>

>

Fear, what a strange word to use >

>

“Damn manuscript I will burn you once I finish you!”

And so Pxan continued to write...just a few more chapters.