I’ve reached a point in this diary, I think, where the entries are writing themselves, by which I mean they seem to me already there, when I sit down to write them, not formed, exactly, but proximate to me, nearby, ready to be articulate, as if each of them has taken its place in a queue that cannot be seen, and whose order is mysterious to me, as it is shaped by events that belong to the future, so that I can apprehend it only as those events at its front transpire, or happen in time, while the rest of it is hidden in a mist of potentiality, disclosing itself, I imagine, if it discloses itself at all, to the face of whatever angel has been tasked with recording or rendering my fate.