What is it with lesbians and diaries? Are we so enamored with our own souls? Do we hope to read it one day with our lovers? Are we so convinced that we are but one tragic death away from genius that history will want to know what we were thinking of in 140 characters or less?
I think often of keeping a physical, handwritten diary for posterity’s sake, but who the hell knows what future ages will want in a legacy? The bronze art of the ancients will last longer than anything created today. Why do I keep trying to fight the passage of time?
