I find my self regretful, that it should so come to this, having myself write on the pages of the books I so cherished in order to get my small words out. For you must, must hear this. I beg, pray, listen. These are the confines of my art, the shackles and windows to my soul.

Feelings so strong you can barely breath, barely be, in the final hour they will be all you have left. The fruit of pain, small honours, sad glories. When the burden of everything you have felt, seen and heard crashes down what will you do?

Spare me your pity and sorrow. Know this is all I have left and that I am proud.