It’s been a long time since we spoke, diary.

The winter of my life is coming soon, and the leaves flutter down still. My body aches with the weight of millennia upon my soul. All the places we have such fond memories of have crumbled to dust, their foundation too weak to grow anything upon.

The tree is still there, as it ever was, but vines have taken up residence in its branches, and it is beginning to weaken. I keep stoking the fire, hoping that someone might visit, but no-one ever does.

The day is getting long, and I grow weary of my toil. But, each new morning, when the sun is rising over the horizon, I take my hat, don my coat, and I go out once more, to do a little trolling.