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Tuesday - 7:59 p.m.

I can't look at my reflection anymore. The stupid thing keeps laughing at me.

I think it knows that this is just a hint of madness, that's all. Like a cold, it comes and goes, and sometimes it causes a sniffle. Looking back, they will say I was just over-stressed, and that I just needed to step back. But, they haven't seen what I've seen.

Maybe it is madness that has caused my decline. Will the scholars look back and point at my fading ability to reason as the ultimate key to my downfall?

Perhaps madness is what brought me to this point, but I'm sure it is fear that has placed me upon this precipice. Fear of the inevitable that has lead me into this corner; backed me in, with no way out. I am trapped and faced with only one chance to save my soul. I am a mad hatter who is out of tea.

I don't believe in ghosts. Yet, I am haunted.

I don't believe in destiny. Yet, I am hurtling towards it.

I am haunted by my failures and tormented by a woman I have never met. And when I close my eyes, I can hear her sigh and let go of the ledge. She seems at peace. She seems ready. I can see her fall.

She's clutching her arms close to her chest. Her chin is up, and a smile crosses her face as the wind whips her hair back out of her eyes. She closes her eyes and waits. She casts a majestic figure, suspended in the air, silhouetted against the noonday sun.

For a fleeting moment, there is nothing more beautiful on Earth than her.

It is a fine death. It is a noble end. She is not a coward, but she knows they will not understand.

I open my eyes. I can't see her hit. I can only hear it.

This morning when I awoke, the entire text of the letter, that I found inside the trunk, that Shannon had left me in her will - was written in marker on my living room wall. It goes word for word and stretches from the ceiling to the floor. It is clearly written in my handwriting. Yet, I have no memory of writing it.

I think I may be going mad.

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