There are questions, I suppose, for which there are no answers. I could inquire of you why you are reading this, but I doubt the answer would satisfy me. My days are long and dark, spent waiting in leisure to die, surrounded by hostile roommates who do not like me, and for whom I feel nothing save contempt.
Do not look at my face. I am ashamed of my vain attempts at communication. Why do I write? I am moldering in this prison. Why do I write? Disintegrating with each inhalation. Why do I write? Is it an act of pure selfishness, or vanity, or delusion?
I fear I do not know.