Birds, Blogs, Blank

Husband, who likes to watch birds, has placed binoculars on the upstairs bedroom windowsill, the upstairs hall windowsill, the living room windowsill, and the den windowsill. Fiorella has placed  note pads and pens on her bathroom counter, on her desk in her office, and on the hassock in front of the couch in the den. We believe in availability.
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Fio ran off all of her 2015 blogs yesterday, and today she'll get the pages drilled so she can put them in a loose-leaf notebook.  She'd like to think that someone--maybe one of her children, maybe a researcher--might be interested in her literary endeavors.  But even if her name gets lost, if every page gets tossed into a fire, her words are out there in the universe for eternity.
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Fiorella, who likes to thinks in threes, is searching for something else to say, but is coming up blank.

Why?

Why does Fiorella write this blog?  She does not write it to attract a following, and she does not write it to pique interest in her fiction offerings. No--she writes it because her brain is an explosion of observations, because she sees herself as a minor Pepys, and because there is a chance that what she writes will exist forever in the ether.

Which means she would never die . . . .