2:56 p.m. - Monday, Jul. 28, 2003
I'm at work. Nothing is happening. I'm trying to collect my thoughts enough to write an intelligent entry, but they simply scatter . . . just the fact of being at work makes it hard to concentrate. I can't do any more electronic filing; my right hand is à fleur de peau.
And another thing! I'm sick of my diary's "look." However, that's not difficult to remedy; just wait another day, and all my opinions will change.
Maya bit Laetitia on the back yesterday. Doesn't appear serious but you never know. I'm just writing this down so I'll know when it happened if an infection develops and I have to take Laetitia to the vet.
I was just noticing, when I was at the doctor Friday, that to the casual observer, the bare facts of my life are pretty sad. I appear, indeed I am, utterly insignificant. No one would ever guess at the paradise inside my head. And that disconnect between external poverty and inner richness is part of what I want to convey in Any Idiot.