1893. Thought-based diary of Mr. Harvey Cunningham. Served from 1865-1872 (dishonorable discharge).
It was a frigid and blackened morning, out on the streets at a ghostly 3:35 AM. The streetlights were slowly dimming, as color started polluting the skies. The red of the sunrise was flooding the horizon, much like your mortal enemy's throat filling up with blood. 'Twas a wonderful feeling. At this time of day, the streets were only occupied with spirits of yesteryear, and the tortured souls destined to spend eternity on this damned planet. For that reason alone, I always get the feeling that I'm being trailed. Today, that's very much a deal-breaker. I am not usually one to partake in the consumption of poisonous substances, but today a cigarette just felt right. Needless to say, I was hacking my way down Main Street. Passing by all of my neighbors shops, I had the sudden urge to smash my way through the display frames, and set fire to the entire strip of stores. This was just the kind of mood I was in on Monday mornings. I frollied about almost every single weekend, playing rugby with the boys, or feeding pigeons in the park. Monday's though, seldom do I feel particularly pleased with anything on Monday's. Today was different, though. This was not a case of the normal "Monday blues". This was not a white and black cartoon in a newspaper. This was my mind surrendering to anarchy.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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