Today I don’t feel like writing. I’m low on energy and a bit fidgety and uncomfortable, perhaps because for some reason I got up before I’d had eight hours of sleep. I spent a bit of time reading this diary; I’m going slowly, because it’s tiring. I don’t know if it’s tiring because it’s badly written or because it’s my diary and my brain has to work harder than it would if it had been written by someone else. But even if it is badly written, I think it’s an interesting read. I’ll have to edit the style a bit, give it some substance; it covers so many different topics, and sometimes I try to say too much in a single sentence. And because it only talks about trivial things, if the style doesn’t draw people in there’ll be nothing going for it. Who knows what I’ll do; nothing, for now, besides carry on, one way or another.