The Logbook
You are not keeping a diary, and you are not writing a book. You are starting to write your life, one line at a time. In the house’s word this is your Commonplace: the book of what you gathered, yours to keep and to carry out the door. Here it wears a sailor’s name.
Everything here stays in this browser, on this device. No account. Nothing is sent, measured, or read by anyone, unless you export it yourself and hand it over.
Where am I, in one honest sentence. Not where I should be.
What moved through today: weather, not verdict. No feeling is the last one.
What moved, however small. Staying counts as distance.
The dot: one thing that deserves a line. True beats significant.
Who was in the day.
Working at a bench? It lends one line, and only one.
·Kept.
Reading back
Was I moved? Did the world answer back? Am I different than last month? Did anything happen that I did not plan?
No entries yet. The next line starts the log.
This takes every line of your log off this device. It cannot be brought back, by you or by anyone. If you want a copy, export it first.