With a great lack of perception do I decide to write to you at this moment. I cannot feel, cannot see. I know not if my pricked finger leaves a hieroglyphic note on these battered bare walls. All I know, is that which I think, and believe in. ‘Cogito Ergo Sum’. I think, therefore, I am. And all I know, is my existence. One moment in a scale of history. For a moment, a story of grand proportion it will be. A piece of heaven sliced for you, for a small second within a life time. Do you not believe me? Do you not truly think that this ‘paper‘, this essay of my digression, will be not magnificent? Do not even think of placing this paper down, but also be wary, for cynical minds do digress upon the insane. These writings may not be seen for some time, but that matters not to me. This story, which will first be found on the cold stone of my cell, will be near a century old when they find it. For that is my sentence. A century. An eternity. An infinity trapped inside stone quarters, how horrifying. But alas, I have grown accustomed to this, this Hell.

    Ten years ago, I fell subject to the place most men call insanity. This foolishness, this passing of the brink, has merely given life more distance, more agitation. And within this distance I have found a lack of green grass over the bony hills. Without desire of giving any true scornful tone, here follows the account of I, Darron Lithiliote.

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