It is a sunny Saturday. A beautiful day, some would say. But does a day really have any inherent beauty? Isn't beauty in the eye of the beholder? People who don't understand said I would feel better when the weather improved. But how can the weather make any difference? When I look out the window I just imagine how, on such a day as this Judy would have suggested a trip to the beach, or to a garden somewhere. This is what I should be doing. But what pleasure can I get in doing this alone? I'm probably repeating myself here, but that is something I find myself doing alot. My brain is addled. I cannot think straight. I can't even write a sentence without constant typing errors. It's The Grand National today. I picked the winner last year. I couldn't be less interested this year. I might not even watch it. It's just another reminder of a life that has passed. Judy and I always watched it together. And I know that should not now prevent me from watching it. It makes no logical sense, and she would not want me to feel like this. But I cannot help the way I feel. I simply have no interest in it, and I won't pretend that I do.