I am dying to write something into my old notebook. By hand! There are seven pages left to it, and I am eager to fill them out as fast as possible. The new notebook is already waiting, too. So, what am I going to write about? Not about my notebooks old and new, I hope. This strikes me as a tired subject by now. And tired is the word. But my hand is rushing ahead of me. I am gaining distance at a clip without a single thought. If I continue writing at this pace, I may be able to open my new notebook in a few weeks rather than months. Hey, my handwriting has gotten pretty bad. I am crossing so many botched-up words that I am surprising even myself. Wait a minute, though. Am I making so many mistakes just to cover as many notebook pages as possible? There could be something to it, for sure. I just counted, and there are only five pages left to fill. So far, I have been writing for many silly reasons, but this surely beats them all in terms of silliness. I am dying to write something, absolutely anything, only to fill the pages of my old notebook. The pits. The way I have become, even this pathetic admission is all that I need to keep going. But enough. For now, five remaining pages it is.