The solitude defies description.

I have been imprisoned in this nameless castle for immemorial aeons. When I strain my mind to recall the reasons and wherefores of my incarceration, I can come up with nothing but fleeting fragments. I may have insulted an Archon, or trespassed upon a Sleeper's domain; it matters not. The fact remains, I am here, and as becomes increasingly apparent, here I will always be.

It is clear to me that I am alone in this realm, master of all and nothing. A gibbous moon is frozen in an obliterated sky -- there are no stars, no city lights, no sights other than that pallid, cyclopean eye that watches ceaselessly the ruins of my domain.

I have naught but the bones of my ancestors to keep me company, and yet when I enact the summoning rites the Masters taught me so long ago, I am subjected to mere mummers' plays, antics of dead bones given motion by my will alone. It is clear to me now that the 'soul' is but a fancy, wishful thinking for those who fear death, and I have lost hope of making contact with any form of life beyond this realm. Thus, my haphazard necromancy gives me not the slightest twinge of guilt. It is in fact amusing to watch the animated corpses of one's family leap out a tower window to shatter against the cobblestones of the courtyard below, yet after the fiftieth time you view it, the novelty wears thin.

In dreams also I stride alone, passing blasted cityscapes and benighted crypts with nothing to break the silence but the dull tread of my own footsteps. I regard ruins so ancient that the names of their empires are lost in the void of time. As many experiments upon myself have proven, death is impossible in this realm of stasis, as is escape. I can only hope to endure until the fraying tethers of my sanity at last unmoor, assuaging my guilt, salving my rage, and easing the ceaseless ennui that haunts me. I long for such a release.

Methinks it won't be long now -- hence my inscriptions here. Occasionally I hear whispers only to find that they flow from mine own lips. I cast shadows on torch-lit walls simply to see living movement not my own. At times I cannot recall my name -- a name of which I was once so proud, though the reasons for that have crumbled in my mind, as has all 'reason' here.

There is enormous freedom in my hazed realm, and even more in the solipsism of my ruin-haunted dreams -- and the divisions between them become increasingly unclear. In all of it, I am alone, and there will come a time when this knowledge does not frighten me. For in the end, all one has is one's mind, and once one has lost that... oh, how vast the silence.

How vast, and how beautiful.

--H.P. Lovecraft