Its day 844. My walls are beginning to crack and lately the ceiling has been showing up on the floor. I'm worried for our safety. Sleep has become a luxury, so frequently interrupted by the clanging of metal and the pounding of earth from what I remember fondly as 'outside'. We're blocked in now. A large wall has been erected in front of our shelter. I fear that the people outside, if there's anyone left, have forgotten we're here. I tried getting a hold of Markowitz, but he never came. Ratner! Zlotnick! What's going on? There's a man with a chainsaw outside my window. I think he's angry at me. He keeps sawing. I think he saw me. There used to be more of us here, but our numbers are dwindling. Many have fleed. We who remain suffer quietly in the shadows of the wall, counting the days. Counting the days until it'll be safe to open our windows.