Jan 28, 2047
Perhaps that was stupid of me. Perhaps I will regret it as these last few breaths leave my body on this page. There could have easily been five years more—maybe even ten, twenty, a hundred, if I had the money, put more work in, made the right connections. I was one of the purists, you could say … one of those who opted for what is now called the “human life.” Maybe I could have found some surrogate sucker who wanted to sacrifice. But had I done that, you wouldn’t hold this scrapbook in your hand. You’d have no idea how we got here. I can’t say I’m happy, though I am happy with this.
I know I’m to become a dinosaur of sorts. They’ll dig this up and maybe they’ll even dig you up, too. They’ll scrape away the petrified wood and fragile compressed clay from your limbs. They’ll peel back the stone layers that have become rock on your face. Ever so carefully, they’ll get to your stomach, your bones, your brain. It will look like obsession … because it is … though they won’t know how to feel the origins of their own madness … it’ll be some sort of trance … your last meal, your last fight, even your last thought. They’ll long for the enigma … and be amazed by your archaic and natural coloured eyes, your ancient and imperfect hips, your intact and alien heart.
I guess the great tragedy of life is you never know what you’ll be after you’re gone. But maybe … you will be able to remember … because of this.
Yours forever, Kono