Neithiwr, ces i e-bost oddi wrth y ferch dlysaf yn yr ysgol; dwedodd hi I wish I was you. Doedd dim syniad ’da fi am beth oedd hi’n sôn.

Neithiwr, yfais hanner potel o Jack Daniels a threuliais chwech awr gan chwarae NetHack, gêm Dungeons & Dragons o Oesoedd Tywyll y rhyngrwyd. Yn fuan, bydda i’n dri deg pump oed.

Es i’r gwely, ac yn oriau man y bore darllenais i:

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Gerald Manley Hopkins

Mae fy llygaid yn sych, bleared, smeared gan y sgrîn anobeithiol bach ’ma. Rhaid gweithio yn yr ardd y bore ’ma.