Part 1

 I doubt that anyone will ever read the words written within these pages. No friend or family, certainly. And these poor souls that wait with me in our hours of fading life can none of them read. They have treated me as an equal, with such kindness that my heart, weak as it is, still beats painfully to any compassion. If they knew my origins of office, I wonder if they might be so sympathetic, or would there be resentment and cruelty? What comes when a life is condemned to death? It seems that all those poets I once admired can feed nothing to the overwhelming emptiness. Matthew said that each man dies alone, but I still wish there were a familiar face to see before the darkness.

It can be nothing to you, reader, if you exist. These are the ramblings of a dying man and ramblings they must be, for my hand grows tired and my thoughts become blurry, but I will try to explain. Perhaps for my own gratification alone, or perhaps because there is something to be learned by my story. I imagine, as I write, that the words are being read aloud in some distant, cold voice that is not my own. Are we given to premonitions or do we merely make guesses that chance dictates are right or wrong? The question is one I will never answer.