Cardiff, November

I have begun another notebook because memory has become too generous. It softens what ought to remain sharp and invents mercy where there was none. A journalist is meant to record the truth, though I have spent most of my life learning how easily truth can be arranged into something more convenient.

These pages will contain no such kindness.

I will write down what happened, what was said, and what remained unspoken. The names may change. The weather will not. It is always raining somewhere in my recollection, and there is always a window between me and the rest of the world.

Perhaps that is why I continue to write: not to be understood, but to leave evidence that I was here.