Whitechapel 1888. There was blood on my pillow again this morning when I awoke. My landlady has already been asking too many questions. It is time I moved to another residence.

I am looking forward to reading the newspapers today to gather the latest opinion on the terror in their midst. My good friends have been spreading rumours in many quarters so there have been a myriad of possible suspects, including those in very high places. The police are far too stupid to know where to look. I take especial delight in fooling Inspector Abberline, who should never have been allowed to ascend in rank with his clouded mind.

Before I deal with the pillow I will once again remind myself of last night. The ecstasy will also need to be shared in my diary so I can read it back whenever I need. Today I have some appointments which are necessary to keep so will have to forgo my usual two hours of painstaking recall.

I do hope that one day in the future if my words are read by anyone else, they will understand the magnitude of my work and feel the same pleasure.

I know I am a genius. Jack the Ripper. 1888.