I write to you this day, the 6th of October, the year two thousand and sixteen. All is not well chez Greg. I am cursed by the blight of debt to the local elite. Money is lacking. I am struggling to fed my cat for he is all that is left to me. Indiscretions & ill advised investments have found me in a right pickle (as Edith the fishmonger advised me to say). I dread, and yet must, write of my misdeeds and cock ups (words from Ilvana the Mistress of all things delightful). I hope to update this journal as candle light permits. Tallow is rare these dark days. Until the next time. May your God's, whomever they may be, keep you safe and in peace.
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