Hemingways12gauge

It is well past midnight and sleep evades me; my very mind feels heavy and painful inside of my own skull. Even as I write this, I must rely on a machine to type out the words for me as my hands are not steady enough to hold a pen. Sweat paints my forehead despite the chilling night air wafting in through my study window. I realize now that this is the only way I can find any form of solace or peace. I write this now not as a last will and testament for the encroaching end I know is just lurking in the shadows between dusk and dawn. My body is aged and withered, but not beyond what my own arts cannot restore. Truly I could live beyond the years of this physical form if I so chose, but my end is not in my own hands I fear… no, my death will come to be; soon. So, I choose to write this as a confession of my sins.

Table of Diary of Aldrich: A Diesel Punk Story

Table of contents

Volume 1