(8:47 November 20, 2011: I remember taking a bite of spaghetti. That was around ten minutes ago. I’ve since changed rooms; my computer was dying. Here comes my roommate Dan at 8:48 November 20, 2011. He’s wearing a shirt from Fat Harry's, which is a bar, and I suppose he's just finished his shift. [A day later, at 1:24 November 21, 2011, I still do not know where he was coming from. I'm at the university library and I just coughed on a public keyboard without covering my mouth. Nobody saw.])
But isn’t it sad, in a way, that the truest documentation we’ll ever have of a man’s life will never be read in its entirety? The Diary Guy wrote and wrote, nearly every minute of every day, emptying himself, trying so hard just to exist. And he does, I suppose. People are talking. But (8:55 November 20, 2011: I’m about to move "to truly know him," which once followed "but" [which is the most common point of departure for fancy and honesty; the knife that easily cuts close things into two. So listen. See? Let's not; I have you, and I have you.] to 147 words from now because I think it looks better that way, and you may have forgotten where you were otherwise or lost track of time.) to truly know him you’d have to become the story and the person who wrote it and make the decision soon.
3:33 a.m. April 22 2013.