I have written on the last holiday, and finally have been able to gather my strength enough to write on this one. It is just after midnight, my belly is full of wine, my blood full of joy, my apartment is empty of people. This is how I prefer to spend my holidays. People just muck it up anyway.

The first admission I want to make is that I have spent the last of the remainder of paycheck. I will not be paid anymore for another month. I am out of pills, out of heroine, out of booze, out of food. Something in the back of my brain tells me that the next few days will be difficult. The weather is bitter here. Yesterday, we had a foot of snow to go atop the thirteen inches we had previously. The snow pack is hard, and the cold weather hasn’t truly begun yet. I doubt I will be leaving the apartment much.

Another streak of dreams plagues me, just as I am about to reveal the truth behind the previous set. In this one, I find myself in a library, reading a book in a strange language that is oddly familiar. Each glyph looks archaic, seems to glow darkly. I speak the words silently in my dreams; it feels like stabbing my nail-beds with needles. The pages are glassy, the air is thin. I feel transported or drowned, interchangeably. These dreams have been the same from night to night since Christmas. I don’t understand them, but thinking on the trials to come in the next week or two, I shall either learn much much more, or lose myself to psychosis. I am sober enough to be lucid, drunk enough to be nonchalant. Whatever gods might exist, I call on your assistance now. My soul is shaking.

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