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,

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