where the writers are
Entries from the lost Journal...continued

The eleventh of August, The year is unknown I am beginning to feel the effects of my injury. I sweat despite the cold and my focus is not as sharp as I’d like. As I passed through the darkened tunnels that lead toward my destination, I thought about what I would like the reader to take from the discovery of this journal and how they would interpret what I’ve written. What would they think of me? Brilliant? Disturbed? Insane? A leader? A coward? A hero? A murderer? What then? What should I record for…for no one and everyone? I sat back in my black iron chair, turned and gazed into the fire. That wet log still hissed defiantly as the flames ate away at it. I am close. Close to the last place I found a cure yet I dare not move without the darkness to shield my ambulation. I throb with each written word and pray the sun will fall from the sky faster this day than the last. And why not? Why wouldn’t the cosmos acquiesce my one simple request? It had turned its back on so many others. Alas, I fear I cannot will it to hear my plea and comply. Arya, if she were here in my stead, the stars would part like curtains had she asked. My love, my beauty. I must move or your honor will be lost –and that compels me more than the horrors along the road. Should I survive, you may hear from me again.