This battered journal is a collection of loose pages in no particular order with that dates that extend over a century, they are torn, weathers, bloodied, and almost unreadable.
The voices scream in my head. Each one louder than the next. They demand my attention, my actions. I feel as if I am no longer in control. There is no sleep to bring reprieve, only endless hours of hunger and torment. I feel as if I am losing my mind. If only they could see me now, see what I have been brought to, they would not forgive me. I can not forgive myself. But I must chase the voices from my mind.
an amazing bee work of art
January 17, 1747
The voices scream in my head. Each one louder than the next. They demand my attention, my actions. I feel as if I am no longer in control. There is no sleep to bring reprieve, only endless hours of hunger and torment. I feel as if I am losing my mind. If only they could see me now, see what I have been brought to, they would not forgive me. I can not forgive myself. But I must chase the voices from my mind.
an amazing bee work of art