I do not know for whom I am transcribing these events. Were it for me, I would burn these pages now, before the possibility of their being stained by my ink can come to fruition, before the sacrilegious translation of thoughts into dirty disgusting words can occur, before language, in its eternal state of repugnance, can render itself once more incapable of truth. Were it for my sons, I would not bother with such menial tripe, this insipid categorization of the minute into meaning; or, the illusion of meaning, the imposition of a wholly arbitrary structure upon an implacable chaos. Were it for my wife, I would certainly be more temperate, more prudent; but then, the whole of it would be compromised, irrational emotion conspiring against whatever pure method has supposedly been distended in the name of scientific precision. Thus, no, it is not for them. Perhaps I fool myself into believing that this is any more than a distraction, an excuse to be alive for these meager moments during which pen visits paper. We can burrow ourselves into anything, God knows, drown ourselves in our own sorrows, which stem only from our insurmountable distaste for the consequences of our own actions. But I digress. This is for no one, really; or perhaps it is for everyone. A brash example of the equality of all men, my sentiments and ideologies and inhalations and degradations equivalent to those of whoever might arrive at these words, even if they themselves are not yet aware.
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