Sunday, April 6, 2014



We went to the library, CLEANED OUT.

The cemetery, CLEANED OUT.

The FUCKING SHED out in the middle of fucking NOWHERE, cleaned OUT

Every single location we've been able to identify as important in Duckie's little journals have already been picked CLEAN. Hours of time reading and ciphering, WASTED. Hours of driving. FOR FUCKING NOTHING. Day upon days upon days or searching, MEANINGLESS.

Fracture beat us too each and every one of them. I should have fucking figured. He HAS Duckie. He could just ASK Duckie where he hid all his sit. It's probably been cleared out for well over a year now. FUCK.

Running out of options.

I just want him to DIE.... is that so wrong?