Ah, but no matter…who minds what this diary is? Or what purpose it serves. Or why I’ve undertaken it, or wherefore it might end. I could go on and on, asking these things of myself, and nothing I’d say would explain the entries I’ve included so far, nor shape those that are yet to come, unless it’s true, as I’ve heard said, that consequences pertain to even the slightest movement of the soul, so that everything I say and do and think and feel precipitates, to some degree, that which I’ll later produce.