Honestly, if my experience were a living being and these beaming-white computer-screen diary pages were the many parts of a marble statue of that being, the living being would be really pissed at me, the model for its likeness. The actual being, the sum of experience, is always warping and growing and changing, so it would know it could not be properly memorialized in a single unmoving pose. It would still be angry and stuff, because even if I try to get down just one part, it’s not right. I write about the wrong thing or write about the wrong part of a thing or write about everything but totally miss the point or can’t find good words for it. Writing and speaking to people make me feel like my lungs are stiffening. It’s exhausting. ♦