What begins with There Will Be Blood and stray Twitter sightings turns into a practical question about whether the diary should become YouTube entertainment, or whether writing alone is still the right medium for the project.

New Year's Day is dominated by transcript backlog from the early-December video logs: anger over Priyantha Kumara's murder, Harsha and Seylan complaints, people-you-may-know reconnaissance, security-firm bragging, and a lot...

Returned after a writing ban, logged Covid death and vaccination details, reflected on Sri Lanka politics and Afghanistan, then eyed Port City links

A dream about Buddhism opens into a long page about divided faith, revenge on James and Ayeshah, complex PTSD, anorexia, Sri Lanka's corrupt culture, and Thilanga's reputation, before Gangs of London leaves the night...

I let the day escalate into fantasies about controlling the media, striking back, and deciding who deserves mercy, then kept wobbling between aggression and attempts to pull myself back.

I let tiny choices and visual details take over the day while the bigger background was still hunger, heat, exhaustion, and fantasies of leaving for somewhere cleaner and more ordered.

I closed the day with Aitken and Dialog pressure, low-battery frustration, family strain, cake jokes, old-video laughter, and the feeling that work, memory, and self-control were all still hanging together by improvisation.