point of frustration and he looks up to the pharmacist’s station.
I can’t keep taking pain meds, they make me dizzy. I need to concentrate on something else.
He reopens the diary and takes a pen from the backpack to write a new entry on a blank page. He was starting to open up and write more, as if relaxing into his new role as a reporter for the apocalypse, all the time wondering how it affects him personally. He begins:
With the destruction of society now pretty much complete, does that liberate me from the shackles of working for a commission, and all those other legal barriers that were opposed to my craft? Am I now free to now express myself with total freedom? Is this to be my Renaissance?