I don't know you'll ever find this. Likely, I'll have burnt it long before you're tasked with traipsing through what remains of my belongings after my premature demise. If you do lay eyes on these pages, know that I envy you. I envy the solace you find in words. My feeble attempts prove pitiful in comparison, yet I need such solace now. I fear I've done something terrible. Something for which there is no absolution. You would call it selfish at best, horrific at worst. I put pen to paper to explain my logic in the hopes you'd understand why, but my explanation rings hollow. I am bored. Terribly, endlessly bored. Four times in the year since I rid the world of one of its most evil inhabitants I stared at my revolver weighing death versus mental stagnation. I couldn't carry on as I had. It was a sad sense of relief when my failure became apparent. I hadn't realized how desperately I wanted to fail at this one enterprise. But it came at a high price. Time may prove it to be an exorbitant price. I am hardly given to flights of religiosity, but I feel the weight of my sin upon me nonetheless. I struck a deal with the devil himself. May heaven have pity on us all.