I have seen these words written in that polyglot of cursive and printing that I know to be my Father’s. It is on paper that is beginning to be brittle and yellow. I know that it’s continuity with the rest of what has been here presented looks as if it must certainly be contrived. But I am unable to support that view. What was written before he died – or went away – much of which was extracted by him from this journal, and what I am presenting from it now in afterward are all tangibly in existence.
It is, as he said, a curious confluence.
I have no idea how such a thing could have happened. I do, however, feel privileged to have discovered it.
It is a similar mystery to that of the mystery of my name.
My name is Morganna. I have never heard of anyone named Morganna. Even, as I keyed it to make this entry, the spellchecker denied it.
I have no idea how I got that name.
But I have that name.