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Dear Diary, only if the world was like You.

Submission type:

*Max is seen to be looking over the diary, flicking through the pages slowly as the morning light reaches it's warm grip through the boarded window, he lets out a long, deep cough, having not drank for days as the dust hardens his troat, he looks down, still waking, holding onto the diary as if a loved one in a tight, firm grip.

He words out slowly "How the hell did we get here, huh.. I look through these pages as if reading a novel, as if reading some one elses life.. this ain't me.. I make stuff.. yet I read about how I get with gin down ma' neck and a gun in my hand.. turn into a gun nut.. but oh well, remember Max, I just make the guns, I just make them, atleast then it's all under controle.. you know how you get, you fucking idiot.."

Max then grips it, stopping on a page that has oil-mixed blooded prints on the page, reading over it as if to remind him self of his past, given every day fades into twilight, his eyes scanning over the words, reading in his head before starting to read out, as if getting lost in the words. 

"Day 62 in this hell hole, been placed here to keep them stocked up, we're held out near Needles Eye, got this small BOO here, Base of Operations, so I don't forget when reading back, so I'm at this BOO, shitiest place i've seen, the walls all broke to shit, the building righting gravity, let alone these CHOTA who keep attacking, we just can't shake 'em, i've been put on making acidic rounds, my fingers are burning like fuck, dumb ass casing, why my fingers are bleeding, keep burning straight into my fingers, either way, got these fancy rounds here, not bad, we're using the acid from the Scorpians up here, keeps the CHOTA from coming back, just shoot them in the leg, their tissue starts melting off, some wickid shit, I tell you." 

Max then grins to him self, looking to his fingers are the thick lays of scarred flesh remain with their story on his body.

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