I am angry with myself for what I have chosen to record and what I have chosen not to. All these memories -- lost. To my philosophical blithering. Why did I not write that once a professor was kind enough to invite me to dinner to meet his wife's Dutch parents? Why did I not write about driving with my brother and father on a lazy summer day, laughing at Eric Burdon's "Spill the Wine" and eating ice cream? Once I looked back on the one semester I recorded every last detail of my life with scorn; I have prided myself on not talking about my day. But in not talking about them -- I have lost those days. Perhaps it is only because I am in Europe and not documenting enough of my time here. But these are all important -- Well, I shall stop forcing myself to have revelations. If nothing is new inside, I will record what I see outside. For in life, in every day there is something new.

But as for today -- I am still in bed reading Virginia Woolf.

(Is it not actually bizarre that I can live in a country for over five months without knowing the language? I will write on this...)

(Was given another chance to change my schedule again this morning. I will not bore you, however. But please, my compulsiveness is not cute.)