This is what appears to be an excerpt from some journal of sorts. It was found written across several matchbooks.
The wind has chilled me to my bones. I have a jacket on. It does me no good. No good. Ha. Isn't that something? Music blasts all around me. Only I hear it. I've been standing atop this bench for an hour now. I am cold. Where are they? I hate waiting. I am composed. I must wait. They will know it has come when they arrive. I hear footsteps. I see orange. It is time.
