This is a work of madness. As with all works of madness, there is within this document contained some grains of truth. I will leave the discernment of those grains, the refinement of truth, the winnowing of conjecture, to other better minds. This is my testament, flawed though it must be.
We are occupied. By whom or more properly by what, I cannot say. Or I can say, but you would not understand. I am mad. Only a madman can for any time remain among those who have occupied us without degenerating into complete dysfunction. I was probably born a mad child of mad parents, and thus survived being raised among beings that have been referred to by some as gods, vampires, monsters, Them and other things less charitable. In any other place, I am a sad wreck madly wandering the streets in search of something resembling solace if never comfort. In Washington, DC, and in the places which surround it, I am the closest thing to an intelligence operative which can be fielded by mere mortal men.
Men do not come here, and such Women as come here do not last long - their beauty used and abused, they are Changed into something that can no longer be telerated by Men although Beauty may remain... but Beauty that repels the Men for whom alone it was designed to be an attraction is no longer Beauty any sense other than by the appeal of Art. What becomes of those former Men and Women who remain too long in these parts is a sign and a caution. Men being men, those not sufficiently determined to brave an assured descent into madness - they quickly flee from this domain of the gods, the vampires, the Changed, the aliens - whatever they are who remain here too long. Rest assured that they are no longer Men nor Women who long remain, despite appearances.
Nothing at all like men. And nothing at all, and less even than that, are what were once, maybe, Women.