Prologue:

Story of I.
It was a day as ordinary as death when I. woke up, restless in the early hours. Hounded by a euphoric vision, he rushed to his brushes, guided by a vague reflection of the divine that pulled him forward. Perfection was finally visible: a bright and flawless circle floated above his head, foretelling the end of misery and pain in the world. A message of enlightenment and peace, imbued with the sacred power of what always is. But to err is human, and the human had little of the divine left. I. never found the right ink or brush. Countless canvases were consumed by frustrated failed attempts. Joy turned to obsession. A Sisyphean, endless mission erased all trace of sanity from his mind. Falling in a circle. Slowly collapsing. Until one night, when there was nothing left to do, a flood swept through I.'s studio. And nothing could be saved. That was when the hundreds of imperfect iterations condensed into a fluid at the corner where the clock used to be. And a strange sensation emerged in that moment, watching the vision rise triumphant from a pile of garbage—more radiant and perfect in its amalgamation than any single attempt had ever been on its own. And then, from the floor, finally, I. understood.


-> Intentos Fallidos <-
[Failed Attempts]