Dear diary,

I hope you'll forgive the abuse in terms of the unsocial hours I keep you open. Should you be a lover, I expect I would not need to apologize.

I also hope you'll forgive my outpouring of stupid sentiments. They are not stupid to me, but they might be unpleasant to hear in their vehemence.

I need to thank you for your endless patience and your tenderness at somebody who's in pain and has nowhere else to deposit it.

You have been the little solace that has allowed me to go on against all odds. The French have a beautiful word for it: soulagement.

I guess the shock of meeting at last was so great as to send me into a spin. That changes today.

Dear diary, I hope you will not be jealous, but I'll also use another platform for how I feel. I have been for a short while. That does not mean I will not be here, and I know you'll understand.

Dear diary, as you well know, I also use other languages. No matter how many I learn, it will never be the equal in beauty to her hand brushing a lock of hair away from her forehead.

A warning to you, dear diary. The day she comes near me, I might very well cease altogether, though I doubt it. She awoke letters in me that have not been invented yet.