Atop the colorful tablecloth of the dining-room table sat a small, pocket-sized book.

Dear Diary,

I often forget to write in you, even when I am at home.
I sit thinking about you all the time.

I begin to type, very cautiously, for inspiration.
I cut out the needless words, and hastily add in all the rest.

I begin to write as follows.
In a style that is truly original.

Oh, my joy, my ecstasy, my admiration.
Oh, my horror, my refuge, my salvation.