Dearest Diary,

My My, did that say "closed for business"? Lucky it was, then, that We were there for pleasure, wouldn't You agree? Of course You would, else I'ld not have snatched You up from the fallen shelf. "Now, there", I said to Myself, as a matter of internal dialog, My constant custom on any jaunt, stroll, or meandering wayfare, I said "Now, there is a book that's obviously here at the library for pleasure, as opposed to business. Slim, smartly reductionist, smooth of line, and oh so much the superior to Derdre's dreadful rag of froof, bespangled as it was with woodland wild-life, then dipped in common banality. I'll wager this stoutly bound literary soldier could provide a steady supply of blunt trauma to the skull of more than one heavy-set security professional without the poor taste of becoming unbound, and sticky with humors...I simply must introduce Myself.", and indeed I did.

There, now: is this not more interesting than the idle pratlings of nameless forebarers, and self-named saints? New testament indeed, as I've been saying for at least an eon or two by now, same as I said not several hours hence your contents simply had to go, giving way for far more inteligable verbiage, if I do say so.

Ah, and here We are: home sweet home. Not My home, of course, or your's, surely, but someone's home, and sweet they certainly must be. To paint a house so starkly white, and frame it's eaves to bursting with fascades of green, just exactly like the two houses to either side, and the same as those across the avenue, it screams of the sweet drive to rebel by not rebelling at all. Let us rap upon the door and see if they wouldn't mind sparing some of this singularly inspirational lack of inspiration...