February 28. Sometimes you simply have no fucking idea what your day was about. You suppose it ought to mean something, so you cling to the traces of inhabitance in a day so obscure, from scraps of papers on your bedside table, the doodles on your desk, the leftover Sneakers bar from this morning, vestiges of the windy, twisty ways the minutes, the hours go by. Like an old seafarer you desperately hold your hand up to the stars, and draw with your tired, ruddy fingers made-up constellations out of souls dead from long ago. I suppose life is funny that way. A lot of things are funny in life. You just need to match the timing. Because otherwise people would think you’re out of your mind and would dismiss you as a nut case and– oh, fuck it. Be crazy.