He extended a beautiful yellow spiral diary out of his left pocket, tapping his finger lightly referring to the page that looked quite worned by sweat of fingers that had run through them over and over. It was in English and the letters were crafted to speak about it's author. The contents of the page read- I am scared of myself. I have been for a while.

I quite often think about death or imagine murders like watching a thriller series online. Just that it happens right in front of my eyes with this unique ability to disappear when interrupted and reappear when there is distraction. These magnificent characters sometimes wait for my response. Asking me- What would you have done, Sam? Making a close eye contact while pointing at me,sensing my chills, they ask- What would you do, Sam? I look through their eyes and think, What would I have done? What would I do? I have seen myself push people off the platforms and watched trains run into them crushing and spilling their existence in splashes of blood and flesh, while I walk with them inside the train compartment. I pray they stay safe when they deboard. With them a piece of me goes looking after them. The pressure mounts on the minimal part of me that's left. My imagination doesn't stop at that. It begins from non-existential bold faces with loud pancaked makeups resembling theatre artforms but with power of human consequence and continues to run into the faces I know. It is at this moment I attempt to detach from it, scared for my family. It has not been difficult to identify that the threat is real and it has it's thread in my head. I cannot be alone. I have Peter for company.

I looked up and he spoke his first few words in rusted tounge- Peter, a plant I gifted her.

He is French.