A walk to yonder, in the middle of a clearing peppered with old beer cans, and a look in a pile of rubbish turned up a book and a handwritten note. The book was a paperback edition of Listening to Prozac by Peter D. Kramer. The note was printed in ink and dated March 11. From the freshness of the paper, it was probably this past Wednesday.
“Woke with high hopes at 10:00, shower and clothing handy. Hopes of friends today, but fell ill. Now in woods, big clearning with beer cans and firepits. The constant movement of animals disturbs me. Plans of smoking more weed in secluded spot. Wheathor overcast and cold with threat
of rain. Plan for today is nothing. Feelings of depression to arrive back.
by the seed of the tetragrammaton and Elbereth, etc. [?] will [?] for something [?] Sadly the moon waxes strong tonight but the clouds will obscure it's view. I do pine for it’s rays.”
What does it all mean?
Took the note but left one in its place:
“Dear Note Writer,
You are not alone.
Love,
Me”
(If this sort of thing fascinates you too, you might want to check out Found.)
that is so f'ing great
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