As I look back across my earlier histories, I cannot help but feel I have begun to slip into fatalism. As I entered the – whirlpool? Vortex? Let us say vortex, then, for whirlpool implies water, and there was none; just a vast force that plucked the three of us from the beginning of the book to wherever we are now.
Ah, there: I have been moved through space by a force entirely unknown to me, from a place I barely understood to a location entirely unfamiliar, and at best I can muster a feeble shrug.
Things just keep happening, you see, despite my best efforts. Once again, the sharks "philosophy" – based on no founding principles, held up by no moral, ethical or logical framework I can discern – seems to be the most apt. I just go with the flow.
I suppose this should bother me, but eh
As for how I can view my previous journals, it seems that the one constant in the universe is a rather battered, bilious green 3-drawer metal filing cabinet. I dont recall purchasing it – nor, for that matter, am I aware of any shop I might have purchased it from. It is simply there, it has always been there, and I rather suspect it will always be there until the heat death of the universe, becoming slightly dustier, a tad more battered, never less than irritatingly just the wrong shade of green to ever be in fashion.
I confess, I feel a stronger flicker of interest in this humble, silent, enduring cabinet than whatever may be about to befall me next.
I wonder if I might hide inside of it.