Very late, and no sleep. Shadowy thoughts—bad thoughts—chasing me. Have thought about burning my last entry many times. Cannot. What else can make him real, except for my words on paper? When no one else can know, how can I convince myself of his actual presence, of my actual feelings? It’s a bad habit, this writing things down. Sometimes, I think, a poor substitute for real life. Every year I have a clear-out—burn the lot. Even Michael’s letters I burned. And now wish I hadn’t.
