July 15, 2024:

Tell me if anything at all was done...
Tell me if anything at all was done...
Tell me if anything at all was done...
Tell me if anything at all was done...
Tell me if anything at all was done...
Tell me if anything at all was done...
Tell me if anything at all was done...

— Leonardo, scattered through the late notebooks

July 14, 2024:

I had got thus far, and was thinking of what to say next, and as my habit is, I was pricking the paper idly with my pen. And I thought how, between one dip of the pen and the next, time goes on, and I hurry, drive myself, and speed toward death. We are always dying. I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or stop their ears, they are all dying.

— Petrarch, 1360

July 13, 2024:

The light is right.
Through the windows I can feel my home.

The smell is absent.
These windows are too far from the coast.
To be exact — that is perfect —
we'd have to add the very fine faint tang of salt sea spray.

These, plus the sounds of gulls.
Then we'd be home.