Dave... the other one, not the one who worked with Keith in a lab, was still stuck inside that motel. He hadn't eaten in four days now. Was worried 

Big Joe

would never return.

Dave felt the fat on his stomach. Estimated he had about four or so weeks left to live without food. This wouldn't be a bad way to go he thought.

He had a routine now. Television. A lot of 

TV

. And wrote into a physical notebook. He wrote all day between shows and movies. About his life.

He'd already used about four pens now. And filled out 12 full spiral bound notebooks. Thank god this motel had so many of these supplies. How strange that this was here, he had wrote in notebook 1. That was one of the first things he wrote about.

Over the ink stained sheets on those dozen notebooks he revisited his life. Remembered things and people he had long forgotten.

His hometown where he had gone to school. some real estate developers had come in and modernized the place. Now none of the important buildings that Dave rememberd existed. It was like his life had been erased. His schools. The favorite ice cream shop. The diner. It was all gone.

Maybe it was okay to die. The world had moved on. No place for him in it.

Who would read his 

notebook

s? It didn't matter. He figured nobody would. Still. It was nice to know that they were there.