I am writing this entry in a hotel room in a city in a state that is several states south of the state where I live, or where the moments of my life have lately been elapsing, for ‘live’ seems not the right word, at least not to my mind, as it suggests a sense of purpose that I’m not sure I bring to my own existence, except to the extent that I involve myself in a creative endeavor, which this diary aims to be, though even if it fails in that respect (creatively), it is also, I think, such an insistent record of my thoughts, as they occur to me and as I pursue them, that maybe it will become, for however long I sustain it, both my purpose and the evidence that I have one.