To whomever finds this note,
I leave this journal in hope that something can be learned and changed.
Each year, it is the same.
I have barricaded myself inside with large quantities of food,
but still they come, in through the television.
The voices. The music. Driving me mad.
can turn out to be one of their trojan horses.
I resign myself; I can't stop them, I can only endure.
At least I have Netflix.
They are out on the street tonight, making noise.
Wiggling their bodies, clearly mad.
Their war drums can be heard from a distace,
beating to the ancient tune of some fertility goddess,
or maybe some drunkard god.
Horns and cavacos
can be faintly heard,
but the voices,
oh the voices.
They are loud as they go by, unintelligible,
laughing and shrieking in turn.
At night, I cover my ears and surround myself with the power of music,
playing some good old-fashioned rock 'n roll.
Just keeping myself sane, another day.
I walked outside during daylight and saw the destruction.
(It's safe to go out; they are all sleeping.)
I saw broken bottles and tiny cuts of glittery paper in every possible color,
like a rainbow left on the street.
You can spot other survivors like me. They walk by with
dark spots under their eyes, restless.
Others have some strange energy to them, going nowhere, their minds
on auto-pilot. Those poor bastards don't realize, but it's too late for them.
I look through the blinds and see beautiful women walking by, chased by men.
It's a contagion. They multiply too fast.
Every night there is less of us, and more of them.
When will this madness end?
There is no hope.
The drums are too loud. The music is maddening.
I wonder where everyone has gone. My booze is missing, too.
Yesterday they came back with happy faces,
without a single worry in the world. Even if they have so much to worry about.
I cannot win. Might as well join them.
One last fight.
To remember the old times.
I remove my top hat and monocle, and prepare my liver.
, here I come.
(Not to be taken seriously.)