A simple leather bound journal, seemingly aged quite considerably. The writing is very elegant and the press of the ink was soft.

So cold is this day I find myself journeying through. Touched by the sun, with the chill of the air draining its warmth before it settles on the fabric of my flesh. To think I have freedom, to be weightless as burden dissipates in time through life. The shadows pass away as night blesses their appearance. I must find where I can find refuge in this new land. Here to see those that I have the closest ties to through the mystics of half-stories heard through the night, blurred as they were by, liquor and perspective, on the dry lips of the unloving, unfeeling. Sanctuary, to understand what I can mean, now that my hands can clasp to the tangible world, from this place which held me as a cruel thing. This now foreign land I have no wish to feel hold me up to the dreary sky. I wish for a new chance, a feeling, something I thought to be entitled at my earliest beginnings, yet was quickly strangled from me. Let my own hand guide myself to be that which hates my former masters.