His mind is a mess- the world, even more so. And these passages were only partially helping to make sense of it all. Whatever happened in the last few days had left a gap in his memory and a grisly looking hole in the side of his neck to match.

Now only this battered diary, a few chaotic splinters of memory and random hallucinations, which he is still trying to understand, are all he has to help him piece things back together. He looks back at the words on the page, still unsure as to what relevance they have:

My beacon in the darkest night
My shade from a burning sun
You are probably my only hope…but
I'd really like to not think of you again.

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