[ Erwin's at the bar. It's the middle of the afternoon, which clearly isn't the prime time for it considering that the establishment is mostly empty. But he isn't there to mingle, or to drink, though there is a drink to his left which has gone mostly untouched. There are several papers and one open book arranged on the gleaming countertop in front of him, a pen in his hand scrawling across the nearest of these pages. From afar it may look like he's writing an important missive, but closer inspection will show that he is merely working on his penmanship.
The loss of one's dominant hand makes relearning legible writing an unfortunate necessity. He practices often. Writing is a large part of what he does (or used to do) daily, and even effectively using the journals here depends on it. It's a skill he can't afford to be without no matter where he finds himself, and he gets to feel as though he's doing something at least moderately productive with his time, though he knows full well--from experience, now--that he will remember none of this when (not if, but when) he returns home. ]
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The loss of one's dominant hand makes relearning legible writing an unfortunate necessity. He practices often. Writing is a large part of what he does (or used to do) daily, and even effectively using the journals here depends on it. It's a skill he can't afford to be without no matter where he finds himself, and he gets to feel as though he's doing something at least moderately productive with his time, though he knows full well--from experience, now--that he will remember none of this when (not if, but when) he returns home. ]