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7th March. Dawn.
I know not if this will be my last entry in this journal, or if it is merely the last I will recall once the last clinging drop of humanity, pendulously quivering on the overturned lip of the ewer of my soul, slips from me forever. Do the inhuman have thoughts? Dreams? Do they wonder, I wonder? Do monsters recall their former selves, a distant haze of memory like unpleasant senses from ancient childhood, a skinned knee, a high fall from a branch? Or do demons imprison their former masters, and torture them within, stabbing them with the knowledge that they once ruled the body, but no longer?
I fear, O Loves, I shall soon know.
For the dark times are upon us. I know it.
7th March. Daylight.
I have collected sufficient wits to state the circumstances that have led to my plight. Even as the wind howls outside, I am distracted by the calling, distant feral nature of the beast that I know soon will take me. I can feel it.
It began in the kitchenette.
Each day, like the crowing of the cock, the early day begins, Swiss precision, flawless consistency. The bifurcated frontispiece of the chilled cathedral parts way, holy light streaming from betwixt those doors, blinding at first in the dim, and then! Oh, then!
The fresh, cool wave of refrigerated air pours out, a baptismal font cascading the harbinger of my redemption across my outstretched hands, and as the blazing incandescence clears, there, within… the relic. The plastic chalice, a tower of fulfillment:
This, removed tenderly, into awaiting fingers prepared with anticipation, becomes a sacrament, and intermingled with the jet-black aromatic glory of each morning’s brew, it transforms one thing into another, transmutes what could only be rightly called near-poison – we of meager means must suffice upon whatever coffee we can come across; these city walls do not contain the wide open plains of more exotic lands and beans – it transmogrifies this simple scalding morass into that which gives LIFE!
But this morning… alas… oh, this final morning… The holy gates parted, the light did stream, but when the sunrise nova cleared, in its place, only this:
ALACK! ALL IS LOST!
7 March. Moments ago.
It has started. I can feel it.
The pangs of my fragile frame’s need for the tan liquid release of my weariness overtake me.
There is not long now.
7 Mar. Just hapnd.
Can’t do this.
I’m in trouble.
coffeecoffee cooefefec oeceofoefec oocfoefee cofefeee cocecofofeeeee coffffeeeeeeee neeeeeeed it coffeeococeofoecofoc
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