I'm sitting in a gutter while I write this -- actually write it, with a stick of charcoal and some discarded leaflets I found. I got rid of my datacache days ago. The Angels seemed to be able to sniff it out. I had to dump it to hide from them.
Had to power my headtech down as well; I never realized how much I relied on it. I've never felt more alone. I mean, I'm an explorer. I'm used to going without Web access for weeks, even months at a time. But even then, I still had access to my suite of recording tools, my notes, my downloaded archives. I don't even have an onboard chronometer active.
There's a rat in the gutter looking at me like I don't belong here. I can't really argue with it.
I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. I don't even know why I'm writing. I just need something to do to keep me from going stark raving mad.
I'm going to die on this insane planet.
--Dr. Henry Townshend
