"Everyone disappears. All the time."

He writes. The ink blotting the dark worn pages. He continues.

"Now especially. The People don't seem to mind it. They say we're better off. Somehow, I know they're lying. They always lie. Their eyes deceive them. It is easy to see if you look closely enough. But who does that? Who looks in the eyes, let alone pays attention to them? We are all ghost like creatures. Dead to thought. And to action."

He sets the book on his lap. Thinking of what to write..

"They accuse us of ‘failing to see the opportunity.' Maybe my opportunity is not exactly what they have in mind. I do not agree with their use of "failure." Perhaps all it is, is a difference in interest. But they do not listen. Their agendas are clearly visible. Yet, there is still disbelief. Always disbelief."

He is the Unnamed. He lives, just barely doing what is expected of him. For now, that is all he can handle.

He picks up the slender ink pen, and writes once more.

"I struggle to write. To form a coherent sentence. Whether the distraction being the screams from outside or the screams from within my mind, I do not know. My twisted reality overwhelms me. My belief in goodness is dying. Perhaps evil can conquer the good.

Another friend of mine was taken. I'd known him since the Early decade. When everyone was content and happy. When life was really worth living.

They tell us it's for the good of the prospects. But no one believes The People. The People always frighten us. They know things that we do not. Things my mind can not comprehend.

I'm writing as an escape. For an alternate reality. If The People catch me I will surely surrender, as I am a coward and to fight is nothing but a waste of human strength. But if they do not, who, rather.. what, shall stop me?

The things I have seen haunt me in my sleep. My dreams no longer dwell in happiness. My life is not my own. The sky has darkened.. And I cry because I know the end, or possibly, the beginning- is approaching.

Today, I returned again to my monotonous occupation. I fear they may have noticed my absence, or perhaps, I fear that they have not. Imagine- what if I am but a name? A number? A shadow? Am I to be disposed of that easily? Am I to accept that? To agree with their idiotic regulations? Why? I am not a piece of paper. I am not a number. I am... a decent human being.

The illogical ways my colleagues are made to work angers me. No one seems to mind, but I feel suffocated by their stupidity. Does no one understand? Care? They mustn't, for if they did, they would surely kill themselves for lack of thought and action. Lifeless corpses. Forever glued to their life source - The People.

Now, I must go, for I have not slept in days and I fear my sleeplessness will betray me."

The Unnamed closes the book and glances around the room. He walks slowly, heavily, towards the bookshelf. The shelf consists of four rows of books, just barely fitting the sides of the great architecture. He sighs. Another night. Another dream.

He slides the old brown leather shoes from off his feet. He sets them neatly beside the door. His bed is just around the corner. He walks towards it. The lights have been shut off. More regulations are bound to come. But that isn't on the Unnamed's mind.

He rolls the covers (or lack thereof) down, and makes himself as comfortable as possible. His frail health is of great concern. Especially during the prescribed Sleep Hour. The wobbly bed has always been here. Even before him.

Hours pass. The Unnamed opens his eyes. He rises and walks to his most precious possession: The bookshelf. The great comforter. Books are his only love. He reaches in. Touching the bindings with his slender boney fingers. He picks up his diary. And he writes.

"I woke from a frightening dream - Sweat is dripping from my brow. What is happening to my nights? My dreams? My happiness?

I am waiting to be sent to the Eye. We are all sent eventually. Oddly enough once the Eye has seen, you are beckoned to the Unknown. What awaits beyond, no one will say. Fear grips your throat and never lets go. This I know to be true.

I mustn't show my fear of the Eye. I mustn't scream when the hour approaches. I mustn't... No, I mustn't. They will expect this, and I shall willingly disappoint them.

Tell me - How is this living, when we obey without questioning? When we live and die for the Eye? How is this life? I have yet to find answers for the most simplistic questions. The Defenders are too frightened to notice the deceit. Instead, they cling to whatever nonsense gives them the power they crave. They are lifeless, yet they pretend to live.

The nightmares from the past few days have stolen any sanity I may have had. Nightmares.. They are so intolerable. I am afraid to lay down my head at night. The screams.. They
overwhelm me.

The Commission of The Eye watches our every move. They think the hidden defenders do not notice, but they do. The hidden defenders are completely alive. They pretend to hate. Pretend to obey the Eye. The hidden defenders are mixed in with The People. We do not know who they are, nor does it matter. The only thing we hope and pray for, is that they succeed.

As I sit here, I think. Trying to express my thoughts and fears. But no words are springing forth from my cerebral. It all seems so pointless. My life is empty once again. Sometimes I welcome the Eye. Even... the Unknown calls me. I must sleep. To take my mind off the thoughts that taunt my soul. Goodnight. Shall I see you tomorrow, or will I finally lose my mind? I do not know. I fear my own hands. I must sleep."

He closes the book. Too worn out and desperate to protest the coming sleep. The night is dark like ravens. The night is quiet. All are enclosed within the boundaries of their minds. No one protests The People. And so The People reign.

The Unnamed awakens. The morning has lifted the deadly night hands. He rises, looking out the exceptionally large glass window. The streets are quiet, for the Morning Hour has not yet come. No one protests the regulations anymore. The ones who do, are always erased. Their memories are all that remain.

The Unnamed sips his tonic. Hoping for relief. He unsteadily pulls up a chair. His only remembrance of the Early decade, and of his previous life. He walks towards the dresser. Unhinging the drawer, he reaches for his ink pen. His notebook lies on the table. He writes.

"I finally slept through the night. Even the nightmares have understood. I hope this new thirst will stay present, but I mustn't be too unsteady. I need foundation, and the lack of dreams seem to taunt their power over me. If only I were able to describe them, when they do appear. Their unnerving properties. Their gripping details.

Though now I must speak of other incidents. I will push the dreams away. Or try, at least. Perhaps, someday, I will find the words.

Until tomorrow."