A diary is a method to manage the dearth. Unless you are a diplomat in war time, a spy, or the lover of one of them, your life is almost so interesting like an eremite’s. You need something more than describing your day.

More. Hitherto, my tries to maintain a regular diary have fizzled out when my writing has shown her grimace of weariness because of routine.

Scarcity. Routine. And a third menace: futileness.

I don’t know the way I’m going to feed it, neither how I’m going to get beyond on my boring day. But this time I have a clear aim: to write in English every day. A day in that every sentence will be a victory, despite each sentence can be also wrong.

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