I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
---Ozymandias, Percy Bysshe Shelley

My friend, the one who blogs like me, (to distinguish him from my friends who don't blog and to assure myself, and you, that I have more than one, friend), has said that he does it for himself, that it has caused him to be more observant and has honed his writing. Why do I, blog? To blog or not to blog, that is the question, well the question for this entry. I must blog. Too strong? No. I really must. It has the feeling of its own momentum, outside of myself. It is like the mountain, it is there, the blogosphere. I must have a place there. And so, it is clearly a matter of ego, whatever my particular brand of apologia, explanation, rationale. A matter of a specific manifestation of ego, immortality. Apparently it is not sufficient for me to believe in the immortaliy after the end of my days, the one my faith teaches. I need a small bit of it on earth. Even if hardly anyone reads it, it is there. Always. Or as always as anything earthly, but certainly more always than I am to be.

Let all know who may accidentally traverse these pages, if they exist for any time after my time, that I was here, like the many before and after, who like me would like some evidence of their existence beyond limited human memory. On the other hand, if Ozymandias couldn't do it, silly me.

Speaking of immortality, the Oscars are on.  Only kidding.