There I begin again O! diary, like the many virgins I have stained and left unfinished, unsatisfied. I am not sure why I start over again this time, or for that matter why I started the many literary affairs in the past with other diaries who could have done better as pure virgins than as relics to my reckless fantasies of the ink elevating your purity to the status of a work. It must have something to do with that look of fresh balck ink from my quill forming neat letters upon these pages, it pushes me into a trance. What will I write in here? Like all the times, I only have a vauge idea, and I give myself leave for that, for how does one concieve of an idea that fills a diary this long in one go? I would have to wait an eternity before such an idea fills me with its stupor. So like all the times I will begin with this stale vaugeness and proceed to write upon your virginity with abandon. I am willing to, deep within my counsious mind of course, for my waking self would never permit me such depraved behaviour, stain a thousand such virginities for a single diary that I will elevate to the status of a work. You may or may not be that sacred pile of paper, one can never tell, until I fill that last page of yours which screams to be written upon, they are a piteous lot, these last pages, how unfortunate, for they almost never get written upon.
Be that as it may, but here ends your first page and thus has begun your life as a diary that has been used, I wish you luck and a last page that is written upon by the stains of my quill.