Branston.

It is two turns of the hour glass until dawn, and I have yet to find the sanctuary of sleep, peace from the endless questions that tap upon my skull. Questions, I doubt I shall ever glean the answers to. Why do I trouble myself with this? Why do I even care?  It is because I cannot help but care, he is my friend, he is tormented and troubled, convinced that he is cursed on account of dreadful deeds he has confessed he has done and in confessing them to me, I am now also burdened with them.