Dear Trillium.

Dear Trillium. It seems rather stereotypical that one survive a wreck and be the only one left, even more so that it be the journalist. So seems to be the final pilgrimage that took place here, what seems to be many cycles ago. Scattered pages of illegible text lay strewn upon the moss covered floor of a collapsed abode on the edge of a small mesa, mold festering away at what was left. The gulls seem to keep their distance from here. Perhaps I should follow suit to the more experienced.