1824, January the 6th
It was particularly cold today. Now that all the festivities are over with, I must return to my job. And now the wheel has stopped squeaking on my shopping cart. Oh, dear. Maybe I should have been a professional wrestler, like Pa' said, after all…?
1824, January the 12th
People have wisened up to my tactics. Perhaps I should try to bring in more customers using a cat as bait? This town has a lot of cats. I'm sure no one would notice if one went missing….
1824, January the 14th
Times are hard, and money is tighter than ever. I had to down size on my box again. I can't afford such a high electricity bill each month. The pool is nice, though. At least I still have that. Even if it is January in Cleveland…
1824, January the 20th
I haven't written in a while. Father has become enraged, all because I sold the family box to a hobo for a plane ticket to Brookland. Perhaps the Brookish will be more forgiving?
1824, January the 22nd
At last, after the long journey by aero-plains, or however it is spelled, I have arrived in Brookland. This place is abundant in "Brookland Rage." I have however, taken up substitute teaching, and now I have a macramé class on second street, every Friday night at 6. Life here is easier, when other people get mugged more often than you do. But there is such a dearth of cats and pigeons hat I cannot seem to find anything to eat. I may have to "buy" food. At a "market." With "money."
725 B.C.
I seem to have found a time vortex on the underside of a seat on the public transit. It may not be safe any longer to travel by metro; perhaps I should purchase a bike from the "grocery store?"
725 B.C., one day later
I cannot seem to find a way out. Although there are many large and fibrous pigeons to feast on, I long for the tasty cat meat of my home in Cleveland. Something appears to have been stalking me for the past few days; I must attempt to find out.
Until I can get my hand on a subway seat's underside, I will be stuck h---
*here the journal ends. From blood spatters and cat food smeared on the pages, it would be reasonable to infer that he was enjoying his last meal when the attack occurred.