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  November 7, 1765.  


  "Ideally, I believe I am the one glitch that never could be fixed, inevitably caught with verrayment within the shadows of that which has me in their grasp. With the ever persistent chatters of virtue and vice absence from these light shoulders, it makes me wonder what will befall me and I. Shall I plunge into the cold murky shadows?   


Verily, that which I seek out seems to be in the darkness - a way to verify their existence, prove to them it is they who are the 'odd' ones. Are they not the beings who can neither hear, nor see my acquaintances - the ones who plague me so - with clarity? About me while I put these thinkings to the pen seem to stop. Were they temporary pauses in the in the incomprehensible mechanism of my thought process?   


A certain period elapses, and some unseen mysterious principle seems to set in motion. This troubles me to no end, and I think I shall stop my uttering here - save more for another day - so I leave you with but one elaborately thought out statement. 'He who despises himself nevertheless esteems himself as a self-despiser'."