Dear Diary,
When one is imprisoned in a crypt for three hundred years one misses out on a lot of things. The past three hundred years went fast and were full of wonders which I missed being hellishly locked in a dark damp coffin inside of an ivy covered crypt. I hate ivy.
There is so much that used to be that I have not seen. Entire centuries and now dead technologies, fashions, and ways of life have vanished before I could know what they were but everyone aside from me knows what these things are, even if they were not born before these things happened.
Two days ago someone said he sounds like a broken record.
What did he mean. Did his numbers not match up? I asked.
I was told that he repeated himself.
“What is this record of,” I asked.
“It could be anything, I don’t know,”…
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