I always keep a journal when I travel, but something's different about the one open in front of me now — the notebook in which I was writing just a few weeks ago. My normally smooth script has deteriorated into a scrawl, the black biro scoring angrily into the cream-colored pages.
"I am fed up of being cold. Why am I even trying to write this? My fingers can't hold the pen."
"It's 8 o'clock and I'm going to bed. I'm so tired I can hardly think, let alone talk or write."
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