I begin to write upon these pages, not sure what I plan to record or why I began doing it. Maybe I dream of being some kind of historian of my own selfish desires. Granted I am not the most humble of people, but I do know the trouble's of a man's soul/heart/mind, what have you. There's something breathtakingly joyous and personal about staring a person in the eye as you have the power to rob them of life. Am I a killer? Yes. Do I deem killing necessary? No. If it were up to me, I would just have the contractor give me the money without the blood it spawns from.

Do I write and hope that these words reach somewhere else? Do I wish to be immortalized in some tome for all to read upon venturing into some library? I can't tell, but yet I am compelled to right. Words, events, images, all things wanting to escape my mind and leap onto who knows how many pages. I am conflicted because I use what little free time I have to write about things that already happened. I guess I condemn myself in that aspect. A slave to the pen.

I do not know if this is the beginning or  the end of something grand. If it is the start, then I hope this tome records stories and tales of grand adventures. If it is the end, then I guess the sands of time will provide me with the tomb I deserve.
~Allisan Alhadd