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The act of writing is usually an inward, rather than an outward gesture. Curled over, as if in a shell, the young girl writes in her diary, learning to express herself to herself, seldom thinking that someday she will look here again and reading these words will refresh her memory of who she once was and how she felt on a certain day.  “Dear diary, Today I……”  And so it goes, the fragile scribblings of individual thought, the only record of who we were and how we felt at a certain moment while anchored to a simple star as it tumbled forward in the space of an endless universe.