Once I played a writer in the theater. My character, Katurian, had not been working on one single phrase. He was an author of numerous short texts: scary fairy tales, that would rather serve as the premise for a horror movie, than as a bed time story. He had a mentally sick brother, who committed cruel murders, inspired and enlightened by Katurian’s bloody novellas. Rehearsing this role, I was contemplating: is an artist responsible for the resonance, that his or her art piece produces? I have still not arrived to answering this question, and neither did Katurian, the brave and clumsy superhero of his brother’s dreams; he is sitting in an interrogation room after completing a number of juicy tortures and is thinking about the story of his life, which is being written right now. This story, as all of Katurian’s creations, is creepy and hopeless, but he considers finding bliss in hopelessness and virtue in creepiness, as, perhaps, all true artists.