April 19, 1951
I let myself get to the point where I’m scared out of my mind every single time I see you. So, why should I believe you? A good question  as any. A very good question. One you may let rest on the tip of your tongue and let seep through. Although it wouldn’t taste as nearly as good as the question is. Why should I should believe anything? I’ll listen. I’ll sure as hell listen. That won’t make me believe you. So, you ask me questions, as in - how did you get so scared of me if you haven’t even met me? And I’ll say that I haven’t had to meet you to be scared of you. It’s not you in particular, I promise, I’m scared of everything, everyone, every idea. I’m scared, most of all, of time. Time is always ticking away from your fingers. You can’t hold on to time time. It’s like water flowing from your fingers. It doesn’t work.
Explanations are in order, most likely, I’ve lived so long in my hole I’ve forgotten how to do these things properly. But here’s probably the best way to explain. I die everyday. In complex terms, I am a mutation. Oxygen is slowly killing me. I have about a year left. Maybe less. The doctors told me I was just paranoid. Ha. Ha. Ha. What do doctors know? What does anyone know? I am alone. You are alone. And do not lie to me. I can smell liars. I don’t like liars. Doctors lied to me. My family lied to me.
I wish you could talk back to me. I know you can hear me. You keep these words. You’ve stolen them from me. I never thought you’d turn on me.
         R.D