Day 17

Dear Diary,
I've been stranded in this wasteland for 17 days now with no sign of rescue. The monsoon season is coming, and I have developed a cold. My only hope for recovery lies in a potion that one of the locals gave me. It is a startling shade of blue, and apparently, if taken in excess can kill you. One of the natives has undertaken it to teach me their poetry. Today, he tried to teach me about the meter of their poems, but in my weakened state I could barely understand him. I am, however, eager to learn and am trying my best to scan one of their native laments. I hope someday to write an intelligent essay on the matter. Perhaps, if I make it through this ordeal alive, I can have it published.
I have also moved my living quarters and am now installed in a tiny wooden box measuring about three feet by three feet, with room only for a small wooden table on which I spread my books. It is neither large nor comfortable, but I must stay here until the period of final examination, by the natives' calendar, has past. Sleep is irrelevant and nourishment unnecessary. If you find my bones here, commend my soul to the Lord and give me a proper burial. 

Apparently, I wrote this the other day, while sitting in the library. It worries me somewhat that I have only vague memories of this event.