22nd of Nighthal

In a heavily encoded journal there is a page dated to the 22nd of Nighthal in a slightly shaking but still familiar hand. The rest of the page is filled with the starts of sentences, crossed out until they’re intelligible. At the bottom is a mess of scribbling, the written equivalent of an incoherent scream. The opposite page has a mirrored ink splotch on it, as though the author slammed the journal shut before the ink had dried.