I lost forty-one days' worth of private journal entries today. I don't know how it happened but when I tried to open the files this morning the disc was unreadable by five different computers. I should be devastated by the loss but I'm indifferent instead, which worries me, but only in the itty-bittiest bit, which worries me further. I heard from the divine Miss Alexis yesterday and she thinks I'm "so depressed about everything" which surprised me because I didn't think I was.  

But now I wonder.  

It's true, I have been thinking of slightly depressing things lately, like the circumstance of Henry Darger's mammoth magnum opus, The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion (which I'll probably never have the opportunity to read, and really, how many people ever will?) and its more accessible illustrations, and how, deep down, I suspect (or fear, or both) that I understand more than I care to admit how the poor man fell through the cracks. But does thinking of depressing subject matter equal depression? I don't know. 

But I'm fine, really... I think. 

(Watch out for cygnets, and falling forever, okay?)