18 August 2027
Wednesday. The Subject has informed me, in the margin of an earlier page, that he would like a birthday.
I pointed out that he is born every hour, on the hour, whenever a good group gets the current to him in time, and that he therefore has more birthdays than any being in history. He replied that none of them had come with a present.
So I made enquiries. It turns out the company sells gift vouchers, and that a voucher buys somebody an hour in my laboratory, at Northbridge or in Sydney. I found this an extraordinary idea: giving a loved one the gift of being held captive by a genius. I bought one at once, for the Subject, and then remembered that he already lives here.
I gave it instead to a young man at the front desk whose sister loves old horror films. He was very pleased. The Subject was not.
In the margin: For the record, I asked for a scarf. Something in green, to go with the bolts. I did not ask for a voucher, an explanation of vouchers or a speech. The doctor has never once listened to a word I have written. That is all right. You have.
— V. Frankenstein
