Epilogue

One year later, I find myself nostalgically looking back through my multitude of mono-diaries and dream journals. What do I seek in these crumbling pages from a bygone catastrophe? Solace in the self-indulgent pleasures of isolation? The forgotten existential musings brought on by the mind of a diseased pariah?

No. Not really. I'm just bored.

Anyways, I don't have mono anymore. I'm sure most people are happy about that, except the people who aren't. That brings me to my next point, actually: rock-paper-scissors is a communist game. In a democratic world, rock smashes all.

Reporting in for the last time, your previously afflicted author bids you adieu.