My house burned down last night. I lost everything. Again. It feels better and better every time.

We are allowed to save only a few things from a burning house. I didn't even bother this time.

Your sunshine was nothing, compared to my kerosene and matches. We'll never be cold again.

Writing just doesn't heal like it used to; my hands are still burnt. But I'm in better shape than you.

Among the debris, my life story…written in a marble notebook. Everything chronicled; real events that never happened. I had to start over new each time…

I was afraid to come back this time. I worried about the burnt ink from all my old notebooks being toxic and emitting fumes.

We were among the lost.