I was only twenty when I made my first million from paintings. In the blink of an eye, I became the most famous artist in the country. But where fame goes, peace has no place. By the time I was 22, I had my first nervous breakdown. Then came the second, third, panic attacks, depressive psychosis, and a whole bouquet of other joys. I stopped painting, which meant I stopped living. I told them I wanted to live alone to work on a new painting. But in reality, I just ran away from the city, knowing that I might spend the rest of my life in the countryside. And even that terrifying, Quasimodo-like gardener won’t scare me on my way to emptiness.