Dear Sweet, Imaginary Reader,
Come in and shut the door. Did anyone follow you here? No? Good. Come over here by the window. See that big plume of smoke inking the horizon? That's my old diary burning. I set that fire myself. After about 550 entries and exits, I decided it was time to exit for good. And begin again.
To those of you that followed me from the water: This is going to be pretty much the same as before. A continuation. Same landscape and weather patterns, but under a different name. But, this time, I will try to avoid any subject matter that might draw the attention of law enforcement personnel.
To anyone else: This is not going to be a diary so much as a process of textual landscaping and internal weather reports. I hope you enjoy fogstorms and the sound of blood bending dermal circuitry. If not, it only gets worse from here.
Let's proceed. The sun is dying. And the grass has cut your feet. And the whole landscape has slid off into space. And everyone we know is quietly dying inside themselves. And I am thrilled, so thrilled, to be back assigning barcodes to every instance of falling.