The traveler who comes across the city of Krystallon discovers a space in which to enter, turn around, maybe get lost; but at some point he must find an exit, maybe several exits, the possibility of opening a road to get out. But as he turns in this city with its regular, transparent and illusory warp, he discovers that the streets he thinks he sees are nothing more than the reflection of the street he is walking along, and through the walls of the towers that line the paths he sees multiform figures. He cannot grasp them because with every step forward, backward, uphill or downhill these figures change and expand. When he believes he has grasped their shape he perceives another shape that looms threateningly. At that point, the wayfarer of Krystallon realizes that he is walking through the labyrinth of his mind. In filigree, among the countless paths it contains, lies intact the sacred and ancient mask that the traveler man has taken off and believes he has forgotten.