15:21 - November 22, 2044 - Boston
I am without an identity. In this dystopian future where your identity is given and locked to you at birth, and is your key to all basic human needs, one without an identity is a truly pitiful being to be. I sit outside of the walled city, for I am one who doesn't exist in the database. There are, surprisingly, millions of others, although none of them are willing to share. In my previous life, when I did have a name in this dystopia, I'd never left the safety of the walled city. Now, I see the walled city, once a sanctuary, as a luxurious prison populated by bigots. The only way to reclaim what was lost is to return to 2010, and prevent myself from attempting such a foolish, uneducated act of stupidity. Luckily, I still retain all memories of the time travel formula.
I have noticed that there are torn pages in my journal, which once had entire paragraphs written upon them. I did not write these, and I did not destroy them either. Are there mysteries from my past I have yet to uncover?