There’s this; and then there’s my little red leather alligator-looking daybook of fine Italian tannery that I write in with ink. And there’s no overwriting that. There’s no losing the file into cybergarbaagge. There’s no worry that it will be obsolete someday, like the floppy disk or the zip-file, or the old Bernoulli files.

Man has been writing on paper, or some surface (I’d love to have a tall stack of vellum sheets to write on) since God taught Adam and Eve to read and write, and then told them to teach their children, and then to write a book of remembrance. Yes, books can get lost, or water-damaged, or burned down in the house; but how old is the oldest book? (And how old is the oldest computer file still electrified somewhere?)

So, double duty. I can’t give up the one for the other, or the other for the one.

Who wrote over that one million -plus-file and lost the last week’s entries? Moi.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.