"You just — have people's diaries?" Ford asked, entirely distracted by this from his original purpose in the shop. It had never occurred to him that anyone would do anything with a diary, unless they were the one writing it. All the more reason not to keep one, he supposed — he certainly wouldn't have wanted all of his private musings being poured over by a stranger after he was dead (or maybe he wouldn't mind — he'd be dead, after all, so maybe it was vaguely flattering to think someone would even be interested in his secrets at that point).

"Like famous people? Or just ordinary people?" he continued, still hung up on this idea. "Where do you get them? Do people's relatives sell their diaries when they die?" Ford had only had to deal with one close family death, personally, and his father hadn't kept a diary. Maybe if he had, it would have been a little easier to follow how the hell he thought he was going to get their family out of this financial mess, but as it was Ford had been left to stitch things together the best he could from a collection of papers and documents and vague things his father had said to Mama at one point or another.