I know it's not my fault. I wasn't even born till about fifty years later. But you know there are always some things you feel so responsible for, aren't there? You feel like you should have been there to save them - and of course you couldn't be, because it was way back during the war when I wasn't born, and my parents weren't born, and none of us were born.
Well, maybe you don't ever feel that. You're a diary.
Yes, I'm another of those people that, when feeling guilty, projects it on everyone else. I guess I shouldn't listen to the Schindler's List soundtrack so often, since I just get depressed.
Maybe I should go back to editing. But I don't want to. I've done three and a half pages so far, and it's a nightmare. I'm proud of that total - I'm dreading getting any further. If I finish the prologue before Christmas it'll be a miracle.
Anyway, there's not much else I can do about all that. I'm going to go away now. Sorry about that. I felt like I had to say something; I don't even know why.
Ignore me, please.