1 March 2027
Monday. Today, if the company’s calendar is to be believed, my third laboratory opens its doors, on Collins Street in Melbourne.
It is a fine address. Very respectable. Banks on one side, cafés on the other, and somewhere among them, behind a door, a storm about to break over a body under a sheet. I am told the building already has a vampire hunter in residence, a fellow called Van Helsing. I intend to borrow a cup of sugar from him and see how he reacts.
Melbourne is said to have four seasons in one day. I have one season in one hour, and it is thunder. We shall see which the city prefers.
The company will post its times and prices for anybody who wishes to assist. I have not looked. Geniuses do not look at prices. Geniuses look at the sky.
In the margin: There are three of me now. I have written to the other two, to ask whether they also have trouble with the pipe organ. The doctor says they cannot reply, because they are me. I have pointed out that I cannot reply to myself either, and yet here we are.
— V. Frankenstein
