Eleven entries. I counted them on the bus.

The first four are neat, with the date and the weight and a small note underneath.
Then a gap. Then two in the autumn. Then one in March that reads, in full:
back at it.

That is the closing line of a two-year document.
It is a promise made to a page, and the page has been holding it alone since the spring.

The Book of the Bard — Wall 53:3