((The following journal is written on random scraps - newspapers, Gein burger wrappers, random garbage, all scribbled about haphazardly, 'pages' strewn about. There will be no particular order to them at very first glance. Visra is not a neat person and it shows by the way she keeps her thoughts. These entries are all kept under her bed at the moment, though their placement changes frequently.))
The world keeps on spinning; it kept on going when I died, it keeps moving, things grow, dew weeps from the swamp, I deteriorate. Three years. Three years I've been dead. I feel lighter now, which is fitting - my bones are brittle, my entrails gone, I'm empty as maggots deem me no longer a meal in the night. It's so strange being dead, as no one seems to believe you, even when you're rotting right in front of them. They'd not believe a syllable even if I were to rip off this dead skin right in front of them, and truly, I would. Just for someone on this damned earth to ever believe a word I say to them. I have nothing to gain from lying, so I never have. It's just frustrating to watch them struggle to understand what I'm saying.
Red is back, like a fly to shit, though that says far less about what kind of insect I am. She talks about Her. I haven't seen Her in years, three to be exact. I lost Her the night I died. When I left the city I left Nyx. I left Cami. I left everything behind, I just ceased to exist. I wonder if I've had a funeral yet, but considering me, myself and I, my state definitely would have called for closed-casket. I prefer cremation above all. I've already done it once, why not twice for the road? Ashes to ashes, after all.
Fucking stupid. True, but stupid. Ignore that.
I still haven't found Mae. I searched in the funeral home, I searched the swamps, I asked around. Nothing. Perhaps she disappeared too, into a fog, not knowing where she is, though that's typical of her to do on a regular basis. If the swamp did swallow her up, I would expect it to smell like roasted chicken and leave a trail of that sickening white hair, twigs and leaves strewn about in it. Her disembodied head would be a sight to behold, maybe too alike mine for my own comfort, but it wouldn't be the first time it looks like I've severed my own head.
I feel as though the years have calmed me, or at least put me in a fog. I still see the shadows, constantly, but they don't bother me as much with their presence. I don't have the same anger. It's there, definitely, but it's difficult to feel very much but detached disappointment. I don't remember the last time I actually felt a real, true emotion, something that pulls me from my thoughts and into the present. Fear is an exception, sometimes. But of all the things to feel, why the fuck does it have to be that one? Why can't I laugh at things? I used to be able to. I used to care about things, about people, but now all I have is goals and the lack of motivation required to get to them.
((The next part is heavily scribbled out, ripping through the burger wrapper:))
I have rented a house, though... and I'll lose it in a month. Pocket change scraped up from the sidewalks for three years amounts to a month in true shelter. I don't know what else I was supposed to spend money on, besides food and shelter. Maybe my cousin has the right idea: just live in the swamp and eat crocodile tails.
Don't know how to end this. It's been so long since I tried to write anything down at all. I can hardly read my own writing back. That's probably a good thing.
I'm going to bed.
Not sleep, never sleep.
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