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.

July 12, 2024:

He likes being alone.
He likes being with people.

Where is the balance?
Where to find balance?
Is there balance to be found?

Balance is a myth.
Perhaps, an unimportant one.

He sucks at balance.