I write this for the ghosts of living things that read the journals of madmen. Are there any? What excuse do they have? They say they want to understand.

That's what they say.

Understand this: It hurts.

I write this as evidence. As a case. As - I don't know the word. I knew it once but I don't know it anymore. Words slipping away.

Testimony.

Are you an archaeologist to dig through the old ruins of my broken mind so? Find a remnant of a civilzation long gone. Find what made me function as a society. In society. I - Please, turn the heat up. It's cold.

Perhaps you read that line and shiver and look up and turn the heat up. Perhaps you simply shake your head at my complexities and read on. Do not. Please. Turn the heat up.

Thank you.

I write this because it needs to be written. Because it - because words must be spoken and written down and that's all there is to it.

You want to find my secret? I cannot give it to you. Cannot. I do not know what it is. I may have known once upon a time, like fairy tales. Stories. Once upon a time. But I do not know now. My secrets are lost to myself and that is why I am mad.

I am mad because you made me so.

If I am still around when you read this, I want you to give me a lantern and a cage with a cricket in it. It will do me good. It will be easier to write like that.

You see, you read this to find out proof of what I am who I am why I am. Why I did what you think I did, though I do not think I did it. So this journal is true or untrue. Why not look at my other words?

They are all true.

That may be a lie.