The pen moved like a dancer on that page, the tick noise of the stabbing point being brought out, and then in, and then out again, waiting for the next word to come, only for it to be followed by a flood of other words. The prose escaped out of me like a heart attack's explosion -- I had not spoke to another person like this in ages, and it showed, both spewing with the need to spew, and with the decay of unused thought. Continuing and continuing, with two pages finished and filed by the stroke of sleep.

That next morning, waking up, the first thought was to try and send that letter out to reach Leader. An impossible feat, for I was under the abandoned waters, and Leader's location unknown, but at that time, I was not thinking of possibilities, only that it would happen through a brute force. But once I picked up those papers, they were unregonizable from what I thought was just a simple check-in letter from last night. It seemed that a cloud had came upon me last night, one of storms and thunder.

What few sentences were regonziable through a fog of gibberish were almost chants in the text, predictions for unsightly futures, and the last sentence -- Sugarteara will rise, despite my death, and against all odds. I was certainly not dead physically, but with the abandonment of my identity's hinge, I maybe had a point when I said that I had died. But I could revive myself. Anyone could rise from these ashes, as long as there was a hand to bring them from the grave. But there was no hand now, and the claw that reached for that hand was now writing scriptures of what hopes it had to be revived.

With an embarassment growing in the heart for my declining mentalities, I filed the two sheets into a desk drawer I almost never checked, and never would again. That was the burial place for my words, and this abandoned world was my burial place.