It has come to my attention that one usually keeps a collection of one's current events in a book in which each entry is entitled "Dear Journal" or "Dear Diary". This would either mean that one holds said book to be dear, or that said book is an animate thing. Neither of these are true, thus there shall be no such things in this assortment of my rumination.
This repertoire of my conscious was brought about and suggested by my psychiatrist. Every reaper has a psychiatrist that they are required to see once a month for evaluations (how Sutcliff manages to pass them may forever be a mystery). Although, I feel this to be strenuous and hinder some to our schedules, it cannot be avoided. My psychiatrist's name is Mr. Robin, and despite the fact that I find him irritating on most days with his childish jokes and sense of humor, I concede that he has his share of invaluable ideas and suggestions. Mr. Robin believes that this practice of writing down my thoughts is presumably a way to de-stress. I am unsure how this may help; however, I can deduce that it is a way to reflect and calm oneself by distracting them of all other things in the vicinity.
This 'journal' of my recollections is planned only to be the length of the nineteen pages left within it. The others were torn out at an earlier date, and many were taken by the infamous redhead who seems to always be lurking nearby. I find it odd that there is only nineteen pages.
Nineteen pages for the next nineteen days.
Nineteen pages for me to make a psychiatrist happy.
Nineteen pages for the nineteen seconds it will take to beat the redhead who has just barged into my office.
William
