Erestor's Journal Entry, #4833
There is but one small blurb smeared and scribbled all over a whole two pages. It is written as though someone is being jostled and bounced around, without relent, yet they have such a desperate need to WRITE SOMETHING that its driving them insane if they don't get out this one simple and concise statement of outrage and indignity:
I hate traveling, I hate horses and mud, this wagon is cramped full of practically every little trinket Arwen's ever owned since she was three years old, I lost my bookmarker so my hair is getting in the way, and it is LITERALLY IMPOSSIBLE to write anything without the quill flying halfway across the page and ink getting everywhere. Also, if Glorfindel doesn't stop singing bawdy songs and telling everyone lewd poems, the likes of which I do not even WANT to know where he picked them up at? I am going to stab him repeatedly with this quill and cram it down his throat, the first chance I get.
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