Tsetso
He’s done this every day for as long as he’s had time and a will to remember, and he’ll keep doing it for as long as he has mind and fingers dexterous enough to inscribe the necessary letters on each thin, smooth page. Immortality begins with a record; this is his. Where he’s been, to whom he’s spoken, what he’s planned and whether it’s gone awry; which shirt he wore, which shoes, whose cheek he kissed while dancing that night on the green scuffed floor. No one can say he didn’t; no one can say he wasn’t. It’s all there, neat as a pin and all his.
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