“Fractals came up, as they will, and I pretended to understand them (I don’t). Where does our cat go at night? Still a mystery.”

Writing about myself, what I do on a certain day, who I meet, ideas I might have, my views on current events or the cultural moment in which we find ourselves; or notes on books I’m reading, frustrations I may or may not have with my career, hopes, dreams, regrets, plans; even the world of love I live in with Laura or anything else that has to do with anything that occurs to me, or happens to me, or happens to someone close to me—I write exactly none of it down. I don’t record, journal about, muse upon, commit to a database of introspection you might could plumb and discover in that investigation some more expansive or intimate view of who I am, or who I see myself as being, or who I wish I was.