I do my best to maintain a good record of my writings, but the task is becoming ever more difficult. Over thirty-six years I have penned more than eleven-thousand pieces of writing. They are extended by more than two-thousand addenda. Altogether, I have more than thirteen-thousand pieces of writing and more than two-million words to worry about. To my chagrin, yesterday I discovered a puzzling mistake in my records. Ever since, I have been pouring over all the files that I use to track my writings. Mistakes are piling up, too. The worst part of the exercise is that I cannot be absolutely sure of my records. No matter how many times I check them, mistakes keep coming out of the woodwork. I would need a few eager assistants to make sure that each and every count is correct. Alone, I am stupefied by the task. The situation gets even more worrying when I consider the future. No matter what I do to maintain a good record of my writings, the task is sure to overwhelm me. Slowly but surely, it will surpass my own abilities. And there is nothing I can do about it. Except reconcile myself with my predicament. Records, what records?