Six miles from the fancy little, prissy little heads-of-state office, I am writing this letter. Alone in a crowded woods amng the creatures, I voice my last complaint before I vanish into thin air. In this place I've known in the past as a refuge for clarity in darkness, I will today clear my mind of any grievances I have had with your town.
In all the time I've lived in your town, I have felt rejected and ignored. Though in my early years I did not at first realize I felt this way, the sensation has been there all along. It is the sense of being a stranger, of not fitting in, of being left behind and deceived by those who pretend to accept me among their kind. Though you would always deny it, this sense of unbelonging was unshakeable and evident in all that I observed. No change in my own outlook or behaviour could alter the common demeanor of those around me; I was trapped in a translucent web of whispered contempt and hidden antipathic disinterest.
Though I was born here, in living out my years in this town I have only found that the severity of this treatment has increased more-and-more, compounding until the present day at which point I feel as though my voice has become so muffled that I can scarcely speak. As more and more newcomers move to this (our?) town, I more-and-more find them picking up on this little game. So many have come to this town, ostensibly strangers, and been accepted and welcomed while in all my life of living there my existence has scarce been acknowledged.
To add insult to injury, these newcomers eagerly participated in the town's disregard for me. It was as though, prior to even arriving, they were made aware of this most sacred of customs - that I must remain as insignificant as possible, that nothing I say must be of any consequence, and that on occasion that I am ever 'acknowledged' it must be as an object of ridicule in conversations I am not a part of.
Along with this grievance, I also must cite the direction the rest of the town has taken. The ways of this town have changed since I was a child - a change which began subtly and now has grown out from little altercations in to a degenerative disease which has affected even the architecture. Those rows of baffling, repulsive new facades, adorned with useless smokestacks were not the greatest problem in the world, or even among my grievances - but that the town so enthusiastically chose to refurbish itself in this ugly image has nevertheless caused me some annoyance.
In every avenue of its existence, I have found the city which I once thought of as my own to be pulsing with a strange disease. If it is a disease suffered by the world outside I cannot tell - only that it festers here, strange to the things I've known and alien to the values I hear professed by others.
And now at its nadir, I've seen the schemes manifest in open daylight... trucks pulling in with strange cargo, butchered in the road and carried beneath it. I am not sure I am one of their kind. One of your kind... I feel so strange, so out of place. There... I feel out of place there.
For so long you have tried to console me, that every thing was normal, as it should be. But the degeneration of your city repulses me, and me alone. So here, now, we have gathered around this stump, the creatures and I, their eyes poring over the motion of my pen, their open-fanged grins shining from furred, hairy faces. I will go with them into the pass soon and never be seen again by you people, nor any people at all.