14th of March, 1828.
Discord breathes forth from the walls of my dwelling. I cannot sleep. It resonates with the pulse of my past wrongdoings. It tears my flesh and flays the spirit.
17th of March, 1828.
For a week now I have been denied proper rest, no sanctuary offered. I have torn to pieces that tome which I once revered and whose spell seems to have entered my very bloodstream. Who are you, Yanchal Krimeli? Show yourself, for I can take no more!
21th of March, 1828.
Last night I had a vision. The phantasm as I clearly recall; a stranger of angelic stature pulled me from these haggard mountains and lulled me to sleep in a most balm garden, rich with almond trees and soulful quiet. I am at peace. Never again shall I practice occult combinatorics.
The remaining pages are blank.