This piece of parchment seems to have been ill treated by the wind, warped spot where water hit it smudging it near to the point of unreadability and some parts of it seem to have been ripped off, either by the elements or whoever the author might have been. The writing material must have been cheap.
Miniscule yet dangerous, more dangerous to myself then to anyone else. So much fear, yet so little to show for it. Secrets no one can know, for unjustified fear it would bring
The page has been ripped off at this point. Another shred goes on
What is this feeling? I don't understand it. I don't like it. Ultimately, it makes no difference. No difference at all, just like me.
