17th of May, 1976
Dear Book,
I am not ever going to call you diary again, it's too weird and strangely makes me sound like a twelve year old girl, which I'm not. I will call you book, and you shall be addressed as such.
So, Book, how's life? Oh, that's right, books don't have a living conscious, I should really stop talking to you like this, it's weird. As I was saying, you don't even have a soul or a living heart or conscious.
... BUT YOU DID...
ONCE.
You were a tree, an actual tree, like an oak or something. Maybe even a nice smelling pine, like how Remus smells most of the time.
THEN ONE DAY YOU WERE HACKED FROM YOU HOME AND FROM ALL YOU KNEW AND YOU WERE PULVERIZED INTO A PULP JUST SO I COULD WRITE ON YOU.
I am writing and touching a dead body. I am a monster.
I honestly don't think I can live with myself now that I know of the sick happenings of the underbelly of the paper world.
That would be awesome though, to live in a world of paper. Wait... a world of paper is like a forest. I might go live in a forest now, camping, that's like living in a forest. That is living in a forest, silly Padfoot. Camping seems fun, really fun.
I should try and convince James, Remus and Peter to camp in the Forbidden Forest!
Remus just gave me a 'why are you making that expression like you are watching a woman give birth?' face. OH MERLIN, REMUS IS READING AN ACTUAL PAPER BOOK. THE SICK BASTARD. Aren't you meant to write what's happened to you in your day in your diary? I don't think I am grasping the concept here.
Yours ever so truly in sickness and in health,
Sirius 'Padfoot' Black.