[Buffy's journal is propped up against a couple of boxes, faithfully recording her as she packs some things into a crate across the room. These things consist mostly of clothing, but the odd wooden cross or unmarked vial of holy water find their way into the mix. As she works, she's addressing the journal and, therefore, the community at large.]

I have two cents, and those two cents think that something smells fishy about this whole letter business. Stop, drop and think for a sec, guys--maybe this is the Third Party, and they think they've found a different way to free us or whatever new euphemism they're using for chopping us into tiny and indistinguishable pieces.

[But it looks pretty hypocritical as she tosses more belongings into storage. Clearly she's leaving the house, but for where? Well, house-mates are welcome to come catch her red-handed.]

Maybe this is the jaded-before-her-years denmother in me talking, but I'm gonna proceed with extreme and skeptical caution on this one.