Dear Diary,
I am faring poorly indeed. I fear the season has wrought the
worst upon me. I am a withered vestige; a dusty vessel. My arms hang
loosely like severed anchor chain. Unable to lift myself from despair, I
vacillate freely between tears and frustration. How many more months
can I go on like this? I am watching myself from above, and I cannot
save the man I see. He is hopeless for the time being. His empty carcass
drifts pointlessly in a labyrinth; slowly, for the exit is measured in
time not distance.
