Page fifteen, the last page in the wad of notes I removed from Rémi's apartment, is written, not typed. The handwriting is fierce once more, unchained, no longer aware of itself; the handwriting is dangerous.

not grown up still young still a spaz still jagged I have the knowledge of how to live well but I am not willing to be in pain I have a terrible fear of being in a situation I do not know how to control and I cannot prevent myself from immediately changing the rules in order to make it easier to cope I keep modifying the parameters because I grow frustrated of the game keep changing my perceptions to fit the situation instead of trying to assess the situation I am able to lie to myself on such a large scale and so willingly because it is how I always have dealt with situations I hate being in pain that I cannot control even though it is all I want I willingly force myself to experience pain but that is not how life works the life that is in front of me should not be malleable I do not know how to have problems I do not know how to not lie to myself always for my own happiness this is weakness this is not strength I tell myself not to care when not caring is easier I tell myself to care when caring is easier I am not at an equilibrium I have simply come up with a static method for approaching everything and am now starting to realize the flaws of this method is it acceptable to be well in this way I should not have to do this every time in order to be able to be alive I should be able to be alive other people cannot function in this way because they cannot erase their memories they cannot keep their knowledge of the lie in the background while keeping the lie in the foreground I am still paralyzed by fear and afraid of being paralyzed by fear is this my pain is this enough pain I want to have pain I want true pain I want pain in its purest form pain I cannot control pain that will never end is this my pain to never be able to have pain goddamn I want it goddamn I want to be human and I keep saying I want it and yet I do nothing about it I sit here and hope that in writing it down I can figure something out but all I am figuring out is that I am goddamn gone I am just goddamn gone and I say this because it is infuriating I say this because it accelerates my self-hatred to proportions I cannot control but in doing this it has become purposeful again it has become controlled imagined fabricated organized constrained restrained according to

The writer ceases mid-thought, and at the bottom of the page, finishes with a date:
January 28, 1959
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