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There are many distinctive voices in my head. These are three of them...

My Demon

He requested a red leather journal to match his fiery soul. Handmade paper stitched into the spine, and a red leather tie to hold it together. He's slow to start talking, but once he does he fills page after page with his deepest, darkest desires. He berates me when I forget to bring his journal, but the words swim within him, and thus me...and I must write the words out on whatever paper we find available.

His tastes are expensive.

The Carpenter

He is a man of few words, yet he requested a rich brown leather journal, with lined pages. He prints with a bold felt tipped pen, and keeps half of his thoughts locked deep within his psyche. He's more given to late nights with a tumbler of scotch before the thoughts come spilling forth.

His tastes are utilitarian.

The Devil

He would rather race his motorcycle than write in a journal. Journals are for wimps, thoughts are meant to be kept locked in his head. He broods, feels sorry for himself, is reckless. If he needed a journal it would be metal bound, with a clasp.

His tastes are random.

All the others are relegated to a standard spiral bound journal with a black cover. Their thoughts tumble over and over one another. There is no order within the pages. It's almost as if they vie with one another, clamor for their story to be told first, or loudest, or in some cases hardest.