My wyf is out with a companion, sipping silabub in some place of entertainment. As I scribed, my leg is sore wounded, wrenched from its socket. It aches like an old injury in the creaking change of weather, but my Hollow Man face does not ache some, as it might if it were. Old measured loneliness (for I've turned over all the staring glass in the barracks lest I am spied upon) come full me up. I am not in any dire turn, no mind of that. Instead tis the opposite; I had a stratagem prepared for these evening as I knew should would occupy herself tonight though I thought it would be The Dancer (Oh, & there is a Voivode in the Witchcastle, come to visit from his hills. He & I suppose his loathesome, bloodhungry dam). She says she will not stay late but I do not mind; I have here the other glass of sour grapes! & I may look at old ikons of other times. Some I was not there for! Or so it does seem. Already the wine works quick, eh! Or I may read; the piece upon which I dwell is oddly fashioned; the words seem almost to flow like water uphill. Hills again? That darkling spirit must weigh on my mind more than I presumed at the first blow. We the species are sleepwalking, Kleos screams. Identity is a lie of the flesh, Kleos screams.