In Continuum.

Dear Diana,

I am certain that i am going mad again.The head splitting sound in my head is back,and the top of my skull is cracking open.Only,nothing but echos of the past works oozes out of the gaping wounds.I tore out a chunk of hair out yesterday by accident,and the pain i felt then was - sad to say - exhilerating.At least for a moment there,it all made perfect sense,as i penned the notes and the tunes down on paper.It was a clarity that i have been seeking for so long and yet,at that very moment i was sent back to normality once more.How is it,that moments of greatness lasts only for so long?

I am going mad,and there isnt anybody other there to save me from myself,but the salvation that lies between the black and the white keys.They are mocking me,i swear i hear them in the night.When my fingers do not feel their wooden touch,when the strings do not resonate the notes that pleases,i hear their laughter in the night.I hear them,and they are haunting me,like being caught naked in a great hall of strangers.Here i am now,with sheets of paper strewned all over the floor and beneath this very book that i am writing on,and i calling out desperately for a lasting rush of emotions.Even if it means,that i am going to go mad,for certain this time round.

Dear Diana,

Remember the Jazz Lounge we used to go to around the block from my apartment?That same pianist is there again;that Jerome guy.In his gimmicky suit and that trademark smile,the audience was all over him even before he started on the first note.I was in the corner of the bar two hours ago with a glass of wine in my left hand while my right clenched into a tight fist inside of my pocket.My fingernails made depressions into my palm,as he played on into the night.The roaring cheer went on a minute after each song ended,and i crushed the glass in my palms.They sent an ambulance afterwards,and said something about a sliced artery.My shirt was soaked in my own blood,but the rush of pain through my mind,the blankness that followed spurted me on,as i dashed out of the ICU after a rough bandaging by the paramedics.

Because i had an idea,and do forgive me for my rashness.I swear to make it up to you with the most beautifully constructed melancholy.It is,i promise,going to be better than the pieces that Jerome played at the lounge.Oh,that Jerome,that man is an empty shell.Just the same pieces played over and over again,reversed and played once more.How disgusting;how repulsive;how appalling!This madness should be stopped,by another form of madness so beautiful,so stupendous,the audience would feel nothing but awe.

Dear Diana,

Slow dancing in these blood red heels
In a burning room where my heart still feels
This gaping hole only you can fill
Oh, dearest! May death be the way to heal...

Dear Diana,

Steam rose from the calm surface of the water.There i was,submerged in my own failure.I smashed the window today,Mrs. Arthur complained.But i couldnt help it,and i ask for your forgiveness once more.I couldnt help it,because in sight there was a vase and i saw myself in the reflection of it.I threw it out of the window,and along with it my reflection,because i couldnt bear to see myself anymore.I killed my reflection,as it sailed out of the window and into the streets below,and banged my fists against the keys until they were sore.

But my failure lasted only for so long,for i found my light at the end of the tunnel,my final salvation.With this entry is a drop of blood at the very top of the page,for that is the reason i am smiling while i write this entry now.Do not be surprised,because the blood of my own runs through you as well,and it is you in turn who saved me from my eventual destruction too.Oh,why havent i seen this long ago?I couldve done this,but why have i not?A simple visit to the bathroom can do you so much more,than just the echoing voices off the tiles.They say that the bathroom is the second best recording studio.But i say it is more than just there,for that is where the inspirations are: Behind the mirror.

I found the blades i've forgotten about.Oh yes,it mustve slipped my mind to tell you that i havent be shaving for two weeks.It's nasty,but it's not like i couldve done anything about it.But the blades were sharp,and impulse overwhelmed me as i drew lines like the ones of song sheets down my forearm.I couldnt stop,and as the blood trailed i saw the song,my path out of this self-depreciating failure.I was free!And as the blood dripped from the arm onto the plain white tiles and the warm bath water,i wrote the song that translated my pain and my sorrows,and there it was before me the ultimate masterpiece.

I told you,didnt i?That i will fulfill the promise.And with this promise,comes the greatest piece of material that i have done,literally with my sweat and blood.Here's the music dedicated to you,and with it my greatest love of all,for it and for you.

Dear Diana,

With every drop of blood comes the beginning of one's suffering.Tears would not matter anymore,for the end of the suffering comes death.Death,should you desire release from this strangle life takes hold on your throat,seek it with a pistol or a knife,sliced through your veins clean and quick.Or out of the window,as did my own reflections only an entry ago.

I feel that my masterpiece - or so it is called - is incomplete.It needs to have the second and third act.It needs to have an ending,or it would betray the beautiful beginning.Like the overture,something comes afterwards.Something.Anything.

So death is my answer,and i shall complete this bloody piece of masterful music with death.But how should i translate death,unlike the blood that oozed from my wounds?I paced the room and i thought of the possibilities.My hands trembled but i dared not touch it,for it felt too cold and too chilly.I backed off,and that was another failure staring at me in the eye.

Dear Diana,

The black and whites are mocking me again.I havent been sleeping for three days.Help.

Dear Diana,

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
I hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

The Toronto Star, September 24th, 1928

Death of a Pianist
Special to the Star

Famous pianist Jonathan Champion,29,was found in his apartment at Bronx Street by a witness who only wished to be address as Diana.She was the first person at the scene,claiming that she has been recieving disturbing letters from Mr. Champion.Though none of the letters point to a likely suicide attempt at that point,but the authorities have classified this case rightly so,according to Detective Martin,the chief inspector of this case.

According to Detective Martin,Mr. Champion was found at his piano with drafts of his work all over,and a bullet hole through his right temple proved to be the cause of death.Other injuries suffered by Mr. Champion also included deep wounds in his left forearm,as well as his thighs,apparently from the shaving blades the authorities found in the bathroom,which were sent to the laboratories to further support the investigation.

At scene,Mr. Champion was described to have had a smile on his face even after his death.Though the police have denied all rumors,witnesses at the scene have confirmed this information,stating that it was "A gruesome and horrific death,despite the smile on his face",according to Mr. Champion's neighbour Ms. Fisk.

Mr. Jonathan Champion has been an acclaimed pianist in the early 1920s,but ever since the disasterous record named "Pioneer",his career went downhill ever since.Supported by only his performances at bars on weekends,Mr. Champion claimed bankrupcy shortly after the death of his father in the fall of 1927.He has been below the radar ever since,and it truly is a tragic loss for the world of contemporary music.