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Day Gone by Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

Red by Chris Stewart.

I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain.

Since by tonight I shall be no more.

Pennyless and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone makes life indurable,

I can bear the torture no longer and I

shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street below.

Do not think from my slavery in a morphein that I am a weakling or a degenerate.

When you have read these hastily scrawled pages, you may guess, though never fully realize why it is that I must have forgetfulness or death.

It was in one of the most open and least frequented parts of the broad Pacific that the packet of which I was supercargoe fell a victim to the German sea-raider.

The Great War was then at its very beginning and the ocean forces of the Hun had not completely sunk to their later degradation, so that our vessel was made a legitimate prize.

Whilst we of her crew were treated with all the fairness and

consideration due to us as naval prisoners. So liberal indeed was the discipline of our

captors that five days after we were taken I managed to escape alone in a small boat with

water and provisions for a good length of time. When I finally found myself adrift

and free I had but little idea of my surroundings.

Never a competent navigator, I could only guess vaguely by the sun and stars that I was somewhere

south of the equator.

Of the longitude I knew nothing, and no island or coastline was in sight.

The weather kept fair, and for uncounted days I drifted aimlessly beneath the scorching sun,

waiting either for some passing ship or to be cast on the shores of some habitable land.

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