I sometimes glance across my desk and discover ancient hieroglyphics that have long been placed at the sea floor of current events. Upon deciphering their meanings, I find that they are oddly familiar. My jaw drops as I find my name signed at the bottom of each one, in plain English. How could this be? Does life move so quickly that precious works are forgotten within the week? I suppose so, as I see one dated from a couple of days ago. Am I moving too fast, or is the world, or both? Can I somehow reduce the speed of travel, or am I stuck in the speed of the world? Even if I am able to reduce the speed of travel, what of the progress of the world? It all rests on my shoulders, I suppose. Nobody else quite understands it like me, I'm sure. If I am the only one who understands it, I can't really change anything. Even if I were to change it all, there would be a lot of hatred towards me. "Look, it's the man who stopped the world!", they would say.
Isn't it interesting how quickly my mind diverted to a new topic? I haven't even begun to tell you about the interesting writings that I dug up. Well, I would tell you...but I can't seem to understand them! I read them over and over, and all I can determine is that I have found the diary of a madman. The scribbles on the corners of the pages are occasionally written in blood, the typography is an absolute mess, and there are pictures of random places stapled to the back. How anyone could assemble such a confusing mass of text is beyond me. Perhaps I will learn more in the coming days.