Confessions of a madman
I am writing these few scrabbled pages under a great deal of psychological and emotional 
strain. I fear that my fragile mind, never the sturdiest of foundation to build an edifice 
such as a consciousness upon has finally taken the leap into the blissful igorance of 
insanity. I know nobody here put any weight in my words, nor the images i have tried so 
hard to put into the written word on hundreds of pages soiled by nothing more than my own 
transpiration. When writing faltered in the vainest of attempts to document the vision that 
filled my feverish head those few days in july, utilizing brush, palette and canvas, but 
hitherto, all my efforts have failed sorrowfully.  This testimony is my last resort, my 
last chance for redemption from the evils i now know lurk beyond the borders of our waking 
minds, from images i hav etried so hard to express. They will come for me soon, i can 
almost feel them closing the doors of the ambulance, and the sharp smell of leather from 
the straps behind my back. And then, the sterile white walls of the asylum. The news of my 
vision has reaced out, yes, but ithas become misinterpreted, terribly and fatally flawed. 
They think that it is me who is decieved, not them, that i am a creature only worthy of 
pity or scorn, to them i am no longer human. I am rambling, I know  that, and please dear 
reader, forgive me and show me the patience that a too hostile world witholds from me.
As I said, it all began this summer. July saw records of temperature unmatched by anything 
we had ever known before, rain poured remorselessly from grey heavy skies, increasing 
humidity to a point where it became hard to draw breaths and clothes became damp with a mix 
of sweat and water. As I recall it now it seems strange that should become ill with 
pneumonia under those circumstances, but I canít put any doubts to the doctorís diagnosis. 
My teeth chattered incredibly as I returned to my bed like a fox returning to his burrow, 
but a somewhat shaky fox i must admit. My fever quickly rose above 40ƒC and my coughing 
sounded more to myu own ears as a rasp working against hard wood. My only weapon against 
the bacteria that had invaded my body so thoroughly was the half a gallon of cough syrup 
that had been prescribed to me by the good doctor. As you well know cough syrup contains 
both alcohol and cocain as well as a few other drugs that stimulate the central nervous 
system. This has been pointed out to me many times, and more than once brought forth as an 
explanation to the extraordinary events that was to come. As I see it now i would rather 
like to think that the drugs worked as an enhancement, a catlyst, something that quieted 
the mind to the hubub of normal, everyday life and opened a new window to a universe of 
wonders and fear. My recollections of my waking vistas at this time are fragmentary at 
best, leaving only ethereal, almost mirage like images at the back of my mind. This was 
probably due to the combination of my temperature and the dehydration my sweating body 
provided. But my dreams, already cursed by an alluring vividness took upon a life of its 
own when physical reality shrank away, and it was this dream, innocent in itself, but 
ghastly terrible when put into the greater scheme of things, that made me sit up straight 
in bed with a wordless cry stuck in my throat.
I can hear a truck coming to a halt outside the house now, I have been dreading this 
moment. The white-clad men are coming to whisk me away from everything, and the truth, 
terrible as it might be will die in silence with me in a small room in the cellar of 
Whitechester asylum. I will die too, i know it deep within my mortal body, my mind is too 
frail to stand such a confinement and my body is weak. But i fear not death, death is now 
to me merely a release from the clutches of the dark images splaying across closed eyelids, 
silently marching back and forth freezing me in the light of the eternal darkness, the end 
of all.
I do not know to date what kind of infernal diety fed my delirious self with images thus 
terrifying, and i dare not guess. I can only hope to god and all things holy that this 
chain of events can be stopped before it starts, that some senible soul will realise what 
is about to happen and, in turn, will make them realise the depth of their mistake. Because 
as far as i know the poor denizens have comitted no crime against brother man, nor in 
thought or deed sought to destroy any of godís creations, and even if they had done so they 
never could have deserved a punishment such as this. I indeed hope that what i saw was a 
powerful hallucination or etheric dream invoced upon me by my illness, but if not, on the  
morning of the sixth of august 1945 doom will come to the city of Hiroshima.

Per Sikora 1999