Washed ashore in The Amalgamated Aggromulator

Well, here we are again. A blank journal stretches before me.

Arbi and others have spoken of this as feeling like a refugee camp, after the exodus from Open Diary. I keep thinking of the Nisei concentration camps for Japanese-American civilians during WWII. (Which is unfair to the owner of ProseBox, but I didn't exactly decide to flee an oppressive OD. I feel like I've been herded in.) Here is this brand new prefab structure waiting here, and all for me... but I miss my background back "home". That strange repeating deserty-sandstone dolphin-face.

It is sparse here, and new. Maybe I need sparse and new.

There is no download option here at Prosebox. Naturally the matter is very fresh in my mind! Would I write differently here, knowing that I'm that much more "writing on water" when I do? I put it in the suggestion box.

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There was ghostly activity in the last days of OD. Over the last couple of days, when I have gone to OD, there has been, on the home page, auto-filled in the login area, a mysterious login name that I had never seen before, and a short, equally mysterious few dots of a password. I had been ignoring it - some glitch of the Open Diary system, or something. Today, I said what the hell and clicked to log in as that... and it was a very short, forgotten diary of Gwen's, which had only a few all-private entries and was just for trying to track of devotions and for communicating with a cousin. From 2006; the last entry, the last anything, was in 2007.

I sure didn't have this laptop back then, for Gwen to have ever logged into that diary on it. I got this laptop years later. I mean, I got Office 2010 bundled with it. So why and how would that login have been lurking in this laptop's memory?

And why would it be showing itself as the default login now?

Of my many selves, the materialist sceptic... has very little to say. There can be a sensible explanation, of course, but I think my pragmatist self is the best suited to deal with this situation: All right, Gwen, I went ahead and downloaded that little diary too, along with your real diary. (Yes, I could download Gwen's diary. I discovered several months after her death that she'd changed her OD password to the one I use.)

Beyond that... what should I secretly think of it? Gwen, drowsily concerned wherever she is now about this business of diary-saving, passing me notification about this other one she had?

Or - just a heads-up from the cheeky one, "hi," knowing that I would stop and puzzle over it?

I'll take it. -smiles-

(With the more relish because my materialist sceptic self is positively strangling at even trying to swallow the suggestion that ghosts can mess with computers! I mean, wouldn't we be seeing... I should evidently be highly honored that Gwen is one of the apparently vanishingly few departed who have cared to do so. And for me. Thanks triple, you minx.)

(Thanks triple even if it wasn't you and all there was is the hint.)