The Entrepreneur
...choice but to burn it all.
Wednesday, Quintary 8th, 152 A.R.
I can’t imagine anyone will ever read these words. By week’s-end, I’ll be on the street, and then, within the month-- gone, vanished, as if I’d never lived. And this notebook-- this strange notebook, with its worn black leather binding and tatter-edged pages half torn out. That unsettling fragment of a phrase scrawled on the first remaining page: “...choice but to burn it all.” What will become of this notebook? I imagine its fate will be much like mine: oblivion. So why write in it at all? I don’t know. That’s the truth. For the same reason, I suppose, that I plucked this little book from the gutter in the first place. It’s something to do while I wait for the end.
