Dear Reader,
I've been thinking recently, you know, as people tend to think after a terrible tragedy has befallen them.
No, don't worry. Nothing of that sort has happened to me. I would say I am grateful for that fact, but the important fact is that I am not.
I find my thoughts slipping uncomfortably into an unfamiliar place. A dark place. I also find that I do not particularly like this place.
As I sit in my armchair by my fire, which- this is another thing I've found- has grown quite too hot, I think of how easy it would be for the dangling curtains to catch ablaze.
And yet I do nothing. I do not tie them out of reach. I almost want them to catch a spark.
I don't know why I am writing, but I suppose it calms me down. I suppose this is what they call a diary, and I do feel ever so bad of troubling these pristine white pages and tainting them with the ink of my thoughts. But perhaps I shall do it again, anyways.
My candle drips now onto the paper.
Truly, completely, and forever yours,
Mr. C
YOU ARE READING
The Conundrum of Mr. C
Mistério / SuspenseDear Reader, As a foreword, I would simply like to explain that I decided to begin a diary of sorts. I tire of this dreary house and would like to feel as if I am speaking to someone. I suppose that someone would be you. That is, you: whoever...
