Yellow cars
It was there again today.
The yellow car. It was in the parking lot.
My doctor said I could go home, and then ... there it was. Today they had put a horse on the side. A little silver horse, running.
Yellow was never popular. It was the least popular color, even less popular than orange. That's why they stopped making yellow cars. No yellow car has been produced in Detroit since 1987. Did you know that?
I know that. I checked. I looked it up. I used Google and I looked it up, and I learned that yellow cars don't exist.
And still they follow me.
Or they seem to. That's what they want -- they want me to think they're following me, that they're following me in yellow cars.
But there are no yellow cars, and when I talk about the yellow cars -- and they make sure I'll see them, I'll notice them, and I'll talk about them -- everyone will think there's something wrong.
Wrong with me.
And then they'll never believe me. They won't believe me about the yellow cars, and they won't believe me about the gray people, either.
And that's why they hound me with their yellow cars.
So they'll be safe.
Safe from anything I can say, because no one will believe me, not once they know I see yellow cars.
But the yellow cars are real. I touched one today. It was solid, just as solid as the stump of spalted maple that was driving it, or would be soon when it left the parking lot. And it would leave, it would leave before anyone else could see it. Only I am to see them, only I am the target.
And it's because I know.
I know what they are.
I've seen them, and I know. And they cannot tolerate that.
It's better when I remember my hat. My special hat. Today I forgot it. My doctor said it was OK, that it's OK not to wear a hat every day.
But she is wrong. When I wear my hat I don't see the yellow cars.
They can't find me when I wear my special hat.
They can't find me, because I've lined my special hat with special metal.
Not aluminum foil -- aluminum foil doesn't work. They want you to think it does, to think you're safe if you wrap your head in aluminum foil, but it's a fraud. It's not true. You're no safer wrapped in aluminum foil than you would be if you were wrapped in shreds of moth eaten wool.
Palladium.
It's palladium, that's what they fear.
Palladium, which I picked, piece by tiny piece, from old catalytic converters, four of them, from four different old cars that had no further need of them. Palladium that I used to line my special hat.
The yellow cars are real. And so they exist whether or not I wear my hat. But if I have my hat on, they don't know where I am and so they can't find me with their yellow cars.
They don't know where I am because the palladium blocks the signals.
The signals from my head.
From the implant in my head.
They think I don't know about it, but I do.
I found out.
I found the sore spot, just behind my left ear.
They thought I wouldn't notice, but I did.
I did notice, and so I know. I know what they've done.
The gray people.
The gray people did it, to me, because I had seen, and I knew. And I still know, but with their fiendish yellow cars they have stopped me.
Stopped me from telling what I know.
Oh, I can still tell what I know, but no one believes me -- "oh" they say, "it's just like the yellow cars. There are no yellow cars, and there are no gray people."
But there are yellow cars.
And there are gray people.
And someday someone will believe me, and then you will see.
You will all see.
My doctor says she already believes me, but she says that to all her patients. I know, because I used Google, and it said doctors always say that.
But it must be soon.
Soon, before they can do more.
More to stop me.
They are already trying.
Today I saw a truck.
A yellow truck.
They had written "CAT" on the side to confuse me, but I know it was a truck, not a cat. And it was yellow.
If there are no yellow cars then there certainly can't be any yellow trucks, but I saw it. I saw it anyway.
I saw it because I was supposed to see it.
It was on a deserted bit of road, and only I was there. So only I saw it. And they knew I would talk about it, and so people will say, "Oh dear, now it's yellow trucks, along with the yellow cars, and the gray people. Poor thing!"
And I know what happens next.
But I'm too smart for them. I won't go near them.
I won't go near the construction sites.
The ones with the pianos.
The pianos they can drop "by accident".
And everyone can be so upset, and shocked, and can say they can't believe it happened. That such a thing couldn't happen.
But it can.
And it will.
Unless I'm careful, very very careful.
So I don't go near construction sites, and I wear my hat, so they can't track me to aim their diabolical piano.
And I continue searching.
Searching for someone who
The foregoing suicide note was found after the piano had been moved and the victim had been removed to the hospital, where they were declared dead. A spokesman for the police observed that suicide by dropped piano was rare but by no means unheard of.