Day 37: I guess this is it.

  I want to be a journalist.

  Grass rustled behind me. I want to live.

  Why am I writing the end of my story?

  I would’ve said that before the world changed. The pen I love—the wonderful feeling of capturing real people who do such stupid and amazing things—I wanted to share them.

  I wanted to entertain everyone with my interpretation of how events occurred. The stories of people who overshadow the life I’m living… I would’ve thrown away my life just to compose such lives.

  But I’ve realized that dream will never come true.

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  The people I knew—idolized—they’re gone. The world before this pond of m——y began has vanished, like a sandcastle toppled by the waves.

  Funny enough, my tears smudged the “misery” part.

  I laughed inside for quite a while.

  My heart stopped throbbing though I’m holding my breath while writing this.

  Is this a world record?

  The paper is wet, well can’t let the humid fog stop my writing, haha.

  I know that monster heard the sound of my pen. The cold wall behind me is starting to ache against my back.

  How long has it been since I last ate, I wonder?

  Ah, shit—my eyes are blurring.

  Well, it’s getting closer. I’ll just write my last words.

  For whoever reads this, don’t worry. I’ll say this to that damn thing myself.

  Kill me, you son of a—