A single entry, unvisited. This page is a plan rather than a memory, and I would rather it read as one.
Written as an intention, not a recollection. I have not made this day yet.
I am writing this page from the wrong side of the ocean, so take it as a plan and nothing better. One entry stands against Lima, and against my name it is hollow. That is the whole of the honest position.
August is the season noted in the index — the coastal winter, grey and flat, which is exactly the weather for a day spent indoors among pots. If I go, I will go then, and I will give the storerooms an unhurried afternoon rather than an hour before dinner.
When it is done properly, this page will be rewritten in the past tense and the mark will be filled. Until then it stays as it is, and I will not decorate the gap with borrowed impressions.