themidnightson | 1929 -- California, Nevada, South Dakota

April 4, 1929

We are in Visalia.

They are busy doing whatever it is they do when finally are far away enough not to hear.

I do not know why I have followed today. I do not need them, and they do not need me. Yet here I am again today. Having convinced them I do not feel the need to hunt with them, nor having revealed to them my constitutional. They think it strange, but when they come back to find me having fed in their absence they don't care again.

It has not been a full week and the charade is already tiresome.

Fraser's End of the Trail is far more archaic than enticing.

April 6, 1929

I was nearly discovered.

It has been too long since I was differniating what was spoken to me.

Our dark and leafy glade
Bands the bright earth with softer mysteries.
Beneath us changed and tamed the seasons run:
In burning zones, we build against the sun
Long centuries of shade.

Esme would have loved the oak trees here.

April 9, 1929

Ely.

My patience wanes.

There is nothing here I find acceptable to fitting my requirements.

Apart and among, I alone. I can not live as either of them have chosen, nor do I approve of or belong with the others of my kind. What has he made of me? What have I? Will I one day, in desperation before centuries of silent void, relive his choice as well as his seclusion?

I can not die.

I do not know how to live.

April 23, 1929

Pierre.

They are gone. I am relieved. I am distraught.

I am alone, once again, among the silence and the screaming.

The limestone and marble were faulty, but the dome was marvelous.