A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city,
And contentions are like the bars of a citadel.
— July, 18XX+1 —
July 29, 18XX+1
It has been some time since I felt any events worthy of chronicling occurred, but in the interest of posterity, I once again put pen to paper. It hardly seems possible that I wrote the words in prior entries. I can scarce ascribe such barbarity, inhumanity, indeed, evil to a civilized, cultured Englishman such as me. Oh, my infirmity continues unabated, never doubt; and, despite setting the best physicians of our age on this problem – anonymously, naturally, to protect the family name – no surcease appears in store as yet. However, the servants have remained trustworthy. In these intervening months, we have established a “sick room” in the depths of the basement, windowless and with thick oaken door, where the long hours of our mindless ravings about delicious brains remain undisturbed.