I feel much better today. According to my future-watch I got over five hours of deep sleep. Yesterday I'd had just below three. I used to keep better track of these things. If I had less than 4 hours of deep sleep, I knew to avoid anything too complicated.

Nothing written in my pocket notebook yet. Er, I did write something it just now because I remembered what I'd meant to put in there earlier. 

In my work, ye olde field of Medycal Supply, I encounter various situations. Often I merely brush by them like a feather on a pillar of granite. Sometimes, I become aware of a 38-year-old in the late stages of cancer. I thought, "Hey, I'm 38. Should I be thinking about my own mortality?"

And the answer is I've always been thinking of my own mortality. Not in the finale, so to speak, but in the chapters leading up to it. Every day a page.

Only The Book of Sand is infinite. So I hear. I search ancient libraries for it, but I have yet to find it. 

Do I know any stories? Maybe. Once I asked an author what advice he would give to his character at a certain point during his story. After his answer, I reached across the table and grabbed his shoulders. Shaking him I yelled, "Then why didn't you!?" until I was dragged away by the Literary Security Force. They took me behind the library and smacked me with rolled-up periodicals, right on my snout.

But I think I got my point across.

So that's in my journal now. Cancer patient, 38. I'm not sure if this is a real memory, but I feel like some people back in ye olde day thought cancer was contagious. If they did, maybe it was because stuff in the environment was causing the cancer and that's why clusters of people seemed to get it. 

But maybe that's not a real memory.