Your mad admin is toying with the idea of writing down some of his memories. They’re sure to be quite boring memories, of course, for I am neither a devil nor a saint. Although my habit of switching from first person to third person and back again probably tilts me a bit towards the devil side.

Forgive me my little peccadilloes.

I haven’t decided yet, because I’m not sure it’s at all a good idea. The odds of anyone reading about themselves in the snippets of my life are infinitesimal. But a good many of the events of my life are statistical anomalies in the first place, so even with long odds I hesitate to risk it. As well, since all Readers here are quite Mythical, there hardly seems to be much of a point.

Yet, if I were to shuffle off this mortal coil this eve, all my memories would go down into the dark with me. True, they are very boring memories. Not even a future digital archeologist desperate for a thesis idea would spend a moment pouring through any of my mad musings.

But in libraries all around the world, there are many books that perhaps have never been read in decades, perhaps a century. Perhaps they have never been read at all. The writer’s words, so carefully preserved in print, between the covers nestled, for naught. The writer still wrote them, and while they are there on the shelf there still exists a chance, however small, that someone someday will read those words. A connection made across time, between people who will never meet.

There are some memories that should be taken to the grave, of course. Mad though I be, I haven’t lost all my sense yet.

I haven’t decided. I suppose I’d better think about it some more. I’d dislike it if my words reached across time and killed someone via utter boredom.