Dear Diary, My confrontation with Montag has yielded the desired effect. I feel that I have set him on a byway to self-doubt and bothersome discontent with his knowledge of the halcyon days of literature. It is now clear to me that he has indeed omitted my admonition in regard to his tenure of those paperbacks he embezzled from the women who flouted our book possession legislatures. That makes him ripe to be the next beacon of hope in this abhorrent world we live in. I cannot bare with the burden any longer. I have done my best to obscure my true nature from society, but THEY are surrounding me, shadowing my every move, my detention for my crimes is impend. I hold true that if I tell him candidly, he probably be startled and would denounce me. If I were to be erroneous of his true character, I would be evoked as a nitwit, and most likely be executed. I must indirectly make him realize what his true calling is, to pass down my commission. I was once in his situation, where I had to conclude whether or not I would bequeath posterity with the knowledge of literature. One day I was having the morning meal when a meager and decrepit man stumbled upon my reserved eating section of the venue. He had slithered a small square strip of perfectly plucked paper with exceptionally astonishing calligraphy into the small opening in my uniform´s overcoat that depicted, “You can read? Why do you not read something more significant than this note, perhaps a book?” I was bewildered by this note, but I did not react, nor did I have the eagerness to surrender him to the authorities, I simply pondered on what he was implying. Subsequent to that encounter I found the old timer once more in the town park, he seemed to be nourishing the pigeons, which to this day I regard an eerie action. We did not speak, we studied each other from afar, his eyes pierced right through me, and mine through him, he glanced at my fireman uniform and then back at my face. He reached into his overcoat and slightly pulled out what seemed to be a book. How could a man dare, to upon a fireman pull out a book from his mantel? He must have speculated that I was different from the rest, but what had he seen in me? He must have noticed my lack of response at the eating venue earlier that month, he must have assumed that I was intrigued by his cryptic offer. But moments after, he was restrained by the authorities and was executed that very eve. I felt it was my duty to pass on the wonders of literature that he had implied me to embrace. So I studied them, and hid them from those who would not understand them. I was too apprehensive and afraid to tell anyone, so I kept it to myself and continued my routine life. Montag must be able to envisage his own purpose, not be guided by any external factors that would befuddle his true intentions, just like I was all those years ago. Only by escorting him to the residence of his infraction will it be possible for him to recognize his true mission to society. We are arriving to the dwelling of infraction, I now realize what I am compelled to do in order to make him comprehend. I got it.