It was very simple once; just a chronicle, a chronological exuberance bogged down in the details. E.g.:
But that is not quite right, is it? For who really wants to make of their days one great et cetera, smiling always at this bit, frowning at that, thinking one is noticing things, when all one sees, in fact, is oneself—noticing?
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Addendum: there’s something just a little funny in seeing someone carry a vase of flowers along the sidewalk—as though they were hedged about in their own private garden, into which the world at large was intruding.