I think this is my final entry. Writing is becoming increasingly difficult — the letters blur, the paper loses its substance, even the fire in the stove no longer yields color, casting only a gray reflection upon the walls. It is becoming almost impossible. The ink no longer argues with the whiteness of the page; it rests upon it like a shadow upon a shadow. The very act of forming letters demands physical effort, as if I were scratching them into the surface of frozen mercury
