"Are you ready, love?"
I shift my position on the wide bed, making myself as comfortable as possible. It is odd to me, still, that I no longer feel the greedy fingers of fatigue on my body. Not now, and probably not ever. "Yes," I say.
"Sure?"
"I'm as ready as I can be."
It is enough confirmation for him. He nods at me and turns to his page, dipping a long feathered quill into a bottle of ink. I watch as he writes today's date at the corner of the page in his perfect, almost spidery handwriting. 14 August 1796.
He stops then, quill poised, and flashes me a warm smile. My signal to begin. I open my mouth to speak.
"17 November, 2008..."
I can't believe I'm posting this now... Muse, you kill me...