One More Minute

One More Year

January 1, 1978

One more year. That's all I have. It makes sense. After all, I have to pay for. . . Nevermind. I have one more year. What should I do? This could be very interesting. Hm... I suppose I could go out and be daring. Do life risking things. What will I die of, anyway? So many questions, so little time.

January 7, 1978

I'm feeling....nothing. Empty. It's been a week. I still don't know what to do. It makes me think. I hate thinking. With thoughts come emotions. I hate emotions. They get in the way of everything. I can't do anything with them. They are a nuisance. What to do. A year isn't a long time if you break it down. A year is 12 months. A year is 52 weeks. A year is 365 days. A year is 8760 hours. I don't have long. What to do...

January 14, 1978

Two weeks. Now what. I suppose I could spend my time writing. Writing philosophies. Making predictions. Doing something to pass the time. After all, I have no family. No one to carry out my legacy. No one to tell my stories; my secrets. Hm. Writing. It is the best option. When someone finds me dead at this desk, they will know. They will be enlightened. They will all know the truth. I will make them know the truth.

January 21

Three weeks. Cops tend to be annoying. They always get in the way. They think they know everything, just because of a shiny badge. They know nothing. They wouldn't be alive if they knew. I hate police officers. The other day, I was out buying ink. They stopped me. They said I looked suspicious. They acted like they knew. They don't know. They will never know. Not as long as they carry on with their fruitless lives. Oh well. They don't have to know. They don't deserve to know.