It's been absolute torture. I can never sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Until you've felt what I have felt, had the heat of an awful fever flaring up and down your body, had hallucinations every night, you can't pass any true judgment on me. If you were in my situation, maybe you would do something different, but, at least as far as I know, you're not in my situation, and therefore have no say over what I think and do. I've considered suicide many a time, but I've never gone through with it. I'm too cowardly to do anything of that sort, I guess. Oh, don't get me wrong. I've gone as far as putting the revolver to my head and my finger on its trigger. But somehow, at the last minute, I've always panicked. And then I can't bring myself to shoot.

I suppose there's some part of me; probably the part that keeps me from carrying out my death; that believes I'll be saved one day, that I'll get out. But it's a very small part, and its voice is very faint until almost the last minute. The only thing that keeps me from complete and utter despair is the thought that after today, I'm one day closer to death, that ultimate escape, that great door that once looked black and horrible, but seems to grow lighter and more lovely with each passing moment. Oh! What I wouldn't give to get out! If only I had courage enough to go through with my own suicide! Surely whatever I find on the other side, be it good or bad, couldn't possibly be any worse than the place where I am right now.

You will find no record of cannibalism here, because there hasn't been any. I was left here alone with a camel, a bag of water and a revolver. I used both sparingly, trying to save each for as long as I could. I fear that by riding the camel they provided me with I never came closer to the end of this desert, only farther from the beginning. I did eventually eat the camel. It was dying of dehydration and I was hungry. There was nothing else to it. True, it was dying of dehydration because I refused to share my stash of water with it, but what else was to be done? I had my own survival to worry about, remember. The camel was simply a convenience.

But the camel, too, only lasted for a short while before I had eaten it all. I tried saving it, but then realized that this was a wasted effort. Small animals and insects had eaten pieces of the meat, and maggots had begun to pop up there. The meat itself was dry, but the maggots proved to be quite juicy.

Now at this point, you might well ask what I might have done to end up in this hell with a dead camel and depleted store of water. It might be logical at this point to provide you with some sort of back story. The truth is, though, that as the next day dawns, all the memories of the ones before it fade to black. I can barely remember my arrival in this god-forsaken country. I remember even less the life I lived before my arrival. I know I had a woman. That much is certain. But for the life of me I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember if my parents are dead or alive, or even what they looked like. Hell, I can't even remember what I look like. I'm sure I must look terrible after all this time out here, sunburned and haggard, with a beard that has grown in from lack of shaving. The beard is long enough that I can see it with my own eyes, and God knows that I feel the terrible burning of my skin every minute. But I have nothing with which to see myself, and so have not the slightest remembrance of what I look like.

At night, the desert cools down, and offers some relief...or would, if my sick, feverish body would let it. At these times, I go to sleep and I dream. My dreams range. Sometimes they are nightmares where I run through a never ending blackness, with the sound of an unseen pursuer hot on my heels. Other dreams I do not remember when I awake, but are accompanied by a feeling of dread. Even if I could remember the events of these dreams, I am sure I would not want to.

But there is a third kind of dream that I have on occasion. These are dreams of the best kind. I sit in an Arabian palace with white walls amid jewel-toned silk cushions. I gorge myself on lamb, wine and candied fruits while beautiful perfumed concubines lower grapes into my gaping mouth. They stroke my arms and say my name softly. Then, for some reason, I say "Ladies, please. You are beautiful, all of you, and this food is completely sumptuous, but really all I want is a few minutes alone with a can of Spam." They laugh, and leave, their feet seeming never to touch the floor. The food vanishes. And there, right in front of me, is the Spam in its beautiful blue-and-gold can. It is the last thing I see right before I wake up.

I do not know who will find this, or even when it will be found. But when you read this note, take heed: If you should find a bearded, sunburned man in the midst of this desolate land, know that he is I. I am hungry. Please, for the love of God, bring some Spam.