I find myself doodling on a piece of paper sat outside a cafe. The weather forecast I saw on that man's phone yesterday was wrong: the morning grey and damp, though the sun has broke through during the morning. I checked into the hostel for another night and am here another day in Naples. I needed to buy a tyre before leaving anyway, as the rear tyre on the bike is well worn down: that's were I walked to this morning, the bike shop, I'm on my way back, which just had one suitable Continental, not the "Contact"; a commuter tyre: it'll do for now.

My sketching is words. Downcast words. The journaling here has lost it's way when I've to mention in the previous page no interest shown in the guestbook. What niggles me too, is, early on I receive two messages complimenting me on how evocative or descriptive the writing is, yet, not many others have thought the same. I don't know how I've to write it to change that. As I see it, the time I put in, I've thought in the last day, what the heck am I doing this. I know what I'm doing it for; people at home; but, I'm starting to think about maybe just uploading pictures with captions. I'm going to think hard about a much downsized journal with few or no words.