I took the key I have always worn on a tether around my neck and unlock the door. As I enter I could see rows of journals stacked floor to ceiling against the wall. A desk tuck in front of a large bay window, on top, a candlestick, inkwell with a quill pen, also a black leather bound journal with a small skeleton key still in its lock. I wondered who the journals belong to; intrigued I walked over to the desk. I sat in the Windsor chair and lit the candle, I turned the key to the journal and started to read…………….  

Journal #1 One million secrets buried deep below the stacks have long disappeared, spun into illusions.

The Pen’s thoughts will vanish before your eyes and then transform its implications, with each flicker of the candle’s light.

Names that have no meaning will mention you in shrewd context and unfamiliar events will have you in attendance.

Ink will taunt in condescending scribble, disguised in terms of endearment.

Transcribe confrontations will conflict in their interpretations.

At times they will surly bounce off their pages and the Pen will yell out your name in  invisible ink.

Startled, you will lose you grip. Fear keeps you from running and confusion will keep you reading……………….