These final notes detail the circumstances that led me to this fugue of wracked obsession, one which I could never declare to be the work of mere chance, if such a petty and thoughtless concept could be taken seriously by any who have seen behind the curtain of the mundane; and although no man will ever read this statement, I must compose it nonetheless, so as to document the ethereal sequence of that ghastly notation.
My God is a Gun, translated into English in 2013 by the late Melvin Milo Melbern from a Spanish translation of an anonymous and untitled Quechuan text, is an anomaly in the history of translation.
The heat in the office was stifling, the young women working in Project C glancing over at each other periodically to exchange raised eyebrows accompanied by hand-wafting gestures towards their face. Being in Project A, Lance Helbark’s desk was as far from the air conditioning as possible, and as such he was much worse off than the girls in C.
I had to find myself: that, I knew, but I had only the slightest, mistiest and most oblique inkling of how to do it. I had only just started to realise how lost in it all I truly was, and how time was catching up with me in a manner that could be considered hostile. My grandfather’s voice in my ears: explore, excavate, delve deep – when you have done that, you will know that you have found yourself.
I stab myself through the head with a serrated blade, but I am not dead yet. The story continues.
The cadence starts in C, as if to tease the major scale, but it loses all tonal sense instantaneously. The instrument it is played on does not exist: could not exist.
I met somebody at work today. There was something about his eyes that rang hollow like the kind of expression I imagine people see me to have.
Drawing near to the end now. I’m ready for it. I think. Been waiting for them to come for me for a while now. It’s a nice room – not too cold, not too warm. Full air conditioning, what a rarity – and it’s quiet for miles around.