Private Journal Typed In Braille

I do not know how they replicated this room. It has been out of my mind for several years now. I cannot believe I even remember the layout. It is both comforting and concerning. The bed feels smaller but just as soft and elegant. Of course, when I was a child, a king sized bed was a landscape in sheets and is not so much anymore.

The floor feels of stone - cold underneath my bare feet. It smells like the temple. Wax and smoke and blood. I doubt the truth of the blood. The walls, though not as far apart as the temple, have much of the same markings as far as I can tell.

There is no altar of sacrifice and instead furniture and amenities along with the blindfolds I had been giving on the False Day of Christ. In isolation, they are useless. Jonathan, my sweet Patriarch, are you please? Did you whisper in their ears? Is it meant to be torture to remind me of the wonderful life I once lead instead of having to whore myself to science?

But I do not complain as you so sweetly remind me. I chose this. It is not in my right to complain. I shall forge on as always.