Editors note: Dear reader, over the months we have brought you the semi-coherent ramblings of our art correspondent Rudyard Sneem. His exploits have taken him right to the heart of what makes the Prague art scene tick, travelling far and wide in his diligent unwavering search for an interesting story.

It is with a solemn tone that we regret to inform our readership that during a recent trip Rudyard was found dead and will no longer be contributing to this column.

We are now printing the haunting memoir of a man who’s blind dedication proved to be his final downfall, in a piece we are naming.

Sitting behind this large block of cement I can hear gunshots ringing overhead, I am bleeding a lot and the smell is mixing with my expensive cologne, forming an overwhelming musk, quite unpleasant and foul. Luckily however my blue blood is proving a sturdy ink as I pen this final note on some scraps of paper I happened to catch flying by. How I ended up in such a predicament is beyond me. Packing a bag and flying off to an exhibition named “Invaze fest” I momentarily paused to give thought yet had no idea a military invasion what I would ultimately meet. What vile methods of trickery have been employed by the gods that would lead its’ people to reenact atrocities of war in such a realistic and brutal manner?

Upon landing I sallied forth, inquiring at the local tourist bureau as to the whereabouts of the exhibition space. Finding the first lady most bearded, even, unfriendly and want to be unhelpful, I journeyed off through the rubble in pursuit of my goal. Rounding a corner I was suddenly confronted with the show – a performance piece, highlighting, through reenactment worldwide political struggles between militarized government and guerrilla armies. Immersing my self in the spectacle I began documenting the event. Snapping pictures and scribbling notes, as is my want I was then struck by a sharp pain in my abdomen, and struck more so by admiration for the artist who insisted real bullets should be used in her show. Reeling back in a mixture of reverence and hemorrhagic shock I lay ensconced in the shadow this cement brick and began writing these last fading words. So as your eye flits across this sentence, past that comma, know that I, like many more before me, died doing what I love, that is, reporting contemporary art. I regret nothing and wish to send my congratulations to the curators of this splendid event. In closing I wish to impart some words to my only son Kevin. To you I pass the flame of knowledge and class. Go out, meet people and explore this world as best you can. The future is in your hands.