The Wall

The wall was solid.
Old stone. Age. Silence.

Behind it were pages.
Wrapped in oilskin. Encased in wooden boxes. Hidden deliberately.

The entries are not dated.
Some are written in ink. Some scratched into paper as if time was short.

They speak of things that feel uncomfortably close to the present.

I am transcribing them here exactly as I found them.

I have not altered the words.
Only uncovered them.