A few centuries ago, I would’ve been keeping this diary in notebooks, using a quill, and a pot of ink, and no one would’ve been reading it, for they would’ve had no means by which to find it, unless they’d shown up at my lodgings, while I was there, and had asked if they could see it, though that would suggest they’d have known that I was keeping it, which would’ve been unlikely, as I can’t imagine I would’ve told them, unless I’d started talking about it one night, at the tavern, after drinking too much ale, or unless I’d asked the village crier to announce it, or unless I myself had written about it, on parchment or a scroll of paper, and had nailed that parchment to the door of the town hall.