Dear diary,

I should swear off wine.

Too much of the good drop seems to lead to hallucinations after exhausting days, that and forgetfulness.

Whereas my hallucination was extremely pleasant. The man from the portrait was standing next to my bed, with a tormented expression, as if looking down on his lost love.

My drunken brain seemed to be so "be "spirited" by the ghost idea that it made my eyes believe that the canvas opposite was blank.

If only that had been the only disturbance to my night's rest, I would have slipped blissfully back to sleep, though one of my neighbors still felt the need to bang on my door as if the house were on fire.

Of course there was no one there when I stepped into the hallway, neither the first nor the tenth time.

After my call to the house rental yesterday, the handyman came today. The man is an idiot. Supposedly my apartment was a sauna. He probably would have left right away if I hadn't urged him to check the seals on the window and the heaters. The guy was sweating every step of the way as if it was high summer instead of mid-October. In the end, he called me a fury when I objected to his broken heat sensor and walked away. He didn't consider the fact that I was standing there wrapped in a bathrobe plus a blanket as sufficient evidence of cold.

Unfortunately, my cell phone has not recovered yet, probably it has a memory error. Didn't make it to the repair store.

I wasn't really successful in the archive either. As if it was a rotten joke of fate, the city archive and the then city hall burned down in 1710. There are no records that I could look at. The friendly but somewhat confused employee said that only suffering, sin and murder had been handed down from that time in the legends. I should better let the search rest.

The good woman seriously wanted to sell me a priest for exorcism when I told her about the destroyed painting.

I was glad when a colleague of the lady pulled her away. Who knows if she was still in her right mind. I'm beginning to get the impression the whole art and history industry has a mental problem.

I admit, I have lost the desire to continue talking to people. First the rude staff in the museums, the bald guy in the gallery, the craftsman and now the archivist. For now, I will continue my search on the Internet, from home wrapped in blankets.

Probably most people, would banish the portrait to the basement after such experiences.

I can't even describe why, but I love just looking at it. Sometimes I sit in front of it for hours, just looking. It's like it has a hypnotic effect.

Maybe it's his sad eyes or the mystery surrounding him?

For today is....

Addendum: my neighbor rang the doorbell. He claims I scream at night. This guy has always been a little weird. Runs some kind of occult mail order business. He told me to stop opening the door. He was staring a little too curiously into my apartment, and especially at the portrait (You can see right up to the bedroom from the hallway). His look has something confused. It was probably him banging on my door at night. A strange guy.