Any action, repeated enough times, becomes robbed of its vitality. Setting down the first line of an entry in this journal, for example. Noting the weather, for example. But I will, because I don't know how else to begin. It's not like the days are especially distinguishable, one from the next. Not here. I can go a week without leaving the house and not even realize that I've done it. Currently, 79˚F, and the sky is that shade of blue. Yesterday, I wrote a measly 524 words on Agents of Dreamland . A snail's pace. I have 14,283 words to go. Later, Aunt Beast