I’m nervous, dear reader. I don’t know… Well, I’ve never been forced to pursue someone before. Never been forced to confront murders. Never been forced to find justice through vigilantism.
As I sit on my floor, readying a backpack with essentials – a first aid kit, a radio, vials upon vials of blood – I find myself wanting to give up. The shame. You know you have it good when you try to pack up yet feel sick. But no progress ever came from standing still.
I’ve… Oh, pardon me, dear reader. Forgive the stains on this letter. It’s only. It’s only I’ve just told Mr. DingleWaddles to look after things for me. I don’t know how long I’ll be. I don’t know where I’m going. But I do know: I can’t give up on my friend the gazebo.
I’ll have to forfeit my job appraising asphalt in the meantime. And only just when I’ve worked so hard to get there. Even so, it’s amazing how trivial my job seems in perspective.
My friend. My friend comes first.
I’ve gathered my supplies. I wonder how every person before me must have felt. Sitting on the edge of the unknowable. Readying themselves for the impossible.
And yet some have survived! While others haven’t…
Please. Please place a hex of fellowship and well-being on me dearest reader. Because I’m off now. Off to hunt for clues of the Issacary. Well: off to hunt the Issacary.
Huh. When did turning the door handle become such a chore?
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