He skips forward to another page, ignoring the rest of the entry:
It's funny how emotions have their own music, a rhyming pattern unique to each one.
A flavour almost.
Or maybe that's just me.
His inner most thoughts seem to be contained here. All that remains of a former self. A shattered, fragmented record of a mind but still, somebody he at least partially knew.
Adjusting the fabric wrapped around his lower face, to hide as much as he can,