18 February 2025
Tuesday. The laboratory has arrived on Lake Street in a great many crates, and I have spent the day prising them open with a crowbar and a sense of destiny.
Everything has been made to my specifications by the company’s own workshop: the coils, the switches, the jars, the anatomy charts, and a pipe organ I did not ask for but now cannot imagine living without. The builders were very patient. I asked one of them to make the thunder louder. She said it was already as loud as thunder. I said, louder than that. She wrote something on a clipboard.
The largest crate holds the Subject. He is magnificent. He is also, at present, entirely asleep, which I am assured is normal for a creature who has not yet been introduced to a storm.
I have begun this notebook to record the experiment from the first day. Posterity will want to know how genius felt. It felt cold, mostly. Northbridge is draughty in the mornings.
In the margin, in thick pencil, beside the word “asleep”: NOT.
— V. Frankenstein
