9:29

I killed him. He is gone, crossed out, removed from the narrative, erased, dele’d, torn from the book, naught but a forgotten footnote in this, my new edition.

For 11 years I suffered and succeeded in spite of that son of a bitch and now he lives only at the base of my life’s shredder, in a disjointed and flimsy heap of disordered entropy. Screw you. You are nothing now.

Fuck him. Piss on his words. Salt his memory and make sure it never grows, never fucking again rises to spread his poison and putrid bile. Fuck his fucking memory, his fucking life, his fucking soul. And fuck this fucking book. Or what remains of it.

The look in his eyes as I tore each page from it’s binding, randomly crushing this fine linen page and burning it over that cleansing flame, tossing that one aside to ends its usefulness in the pool that was his blood. That, that is a memory that I shall allow to endure: cruelty repaid. The bastard. Cruelly REPAID.

But now, the book. The pages. I think I shall remove them from play, eliminate the distraction, but perhaps, reserve them for some future part. This story is far from done and the world still has a epic saga’s worth to answer for. And, for now, I have the gold, the geld, the numismatical means to do what I want. Later we shall see what we see.

Enough. I must record this days work, erase the past, rewrite the future and begin again. And this time we shall follow my script and no other.