Dear Diary,
I'm starting to think I'm going mad. Or maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm just a genius, and the world is just too dull for its own good. Either way, I've been stuck in this tiny apartment for 473 days now. I've counted the dust bunnies, I've counted the stains on the carpet, I've counted the times I've woken up in a sweat because I've had another one of those dreams about being chased by a chorus of angry accountants.
I've taken to talking to myself, just to keep myself company. I've given myself a name: "Boris". It's a good name for a madman, don't you think?
Today, I've decided to write a novel. A sweeping epic of love, loss, and the meaninglessness of existence. It'll be a bestseller, I can feel it. I'm just waiting for the muse to strike, or for the electricity to get turned off for the 47th time this month.
Until next time, dear diary. Or, rather, until next time, dear Boris.