My mind is fog, and no thing will hold its place there long enough for me to examine what it may be. Random images drift through, and I wonder if they are mysterious, or merely foolish. That is how life goes, does it not? My body is this day in discontent, and I think at times it is one measure that I suffer for my sins, though I may still think that God is merciful, and many measures would I deserve for my accounts to truly be balanced. Yes, so it goes. Sickness shall pass, and I will not think as I do now, and not even wonder what it was that had a mind to visit my conscious mind in these times. Perhaps this, then, shall serve as record: I existed, even now, when I am closed up tight in my room, and none but a few know at all that I am. This is just a sigil in the sand.