The Marquis’ Intimate Diary

WEDNESDAY, 1 DECEMBER, 1999, PHILADELPHIA
My friends are my deities. I worship them. I emulate them. I delight in their approval and cringe when they frown. I take inspiration from them, and it is to them all my work is dedicated.

Niki is one of my friends.
That tiny fistful of people scattered about the globe.
I love the way Niki writes.
She uses very short sentences.
And lots of one line paragraphs.
Like this.
It's most effective.
I cannot keep it up for very long.
When I try to mimic her writing.
Which I do.
Often.
On me it seems forced.
Like fat thighs in tight jeans.
Try as I might, my one-line paragraphs inevitably wrap around to a new line because I cannot reign in all the useless, spurious, redundant adjectives that flow through my fingers because, you see, 20 years of classical piano have sped up my nimble digits to the point where they can now type faster than my poor simple country head can think the thoughts that supply them.
That's one thing I like.
About Niki, I mean.
She is one of my gods.

She bade me start this diary thing.
I cannot hope it will be as scintillating as hers.