I went into the store and decided to buy peaches.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, because I don’t normally go into that store, don’t normally buy peaches, and it’s a little bit out of the way.

I wondered if I should get some for my friends. They like peaches, and I don’t usually get them presents for no reason.

I decided against it. They’re too heavy, and I really should only buy the things that I need today.

So I went on with my day.

I saw a kid on the street. I saw him crying, and I saw his father grab him by the wrist and say stop that shit. Just stop it. I thought he was going to hit the kid, and heard myself thinking,

Please don’t.

He didn’t. He didn’t do it because it didn’t happen. I made it up. I thought it would sound meaningful. Important.

But I did walk down the street and I did see things that I didn’t like and I did hear myself saying,

You can’t say anything.
Not now.
Keep your mouth shut.

Just then my father called and I decided for once to answer the phone. He said Mijito. Porque no nos has llamado? Why haven’t you called us?

And I stuttered and I tried to think of something to say and I changed the subject.

I talked about the weather.
I talked about rehearsals.
I talked about my IRS audit.

I talked about my friends.
I talked about the war.
I talked about the weekend.

No I didn’t. I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t talk about the war. Why did I say that I did? Why did I say that I did? Why did I say that I did that I did. (4x) I’m so confused. I told my dad, Dad, you’re interrupting me. You’re interrupting me and you’re interrupting my monologue. You’re always interrupting.

I stopped at a pizzeria. I sat down next to two women who were talking about the meaning of the word crescendo. INXS was playing on the radio:

Devil inside,
the devil inside,
every single one of us the devil inside.

I thought about Michael Hutchence in his final moments, the belt around his neck and his dick in his hand. I thought about that awful television show where they auditioned a new lead singer for INXS. Ten years after the fact and anyway, who the fuck cares about INXS anymore.

I took the train home. I saw a woman I know sitting across from me. I did that thing you do where you see someone you know but you pretend you haven’t seen them. I looked down at my shoes, acted like I was lost in thought, in my very active imagination. I thought about how she was pretending too, how she knew I was there and how we were so close to each other.

I looked up at the advertisement above her head. It read:

Nothing shines like brick.

I got home and sat on the toilet and turned the shower on, because the sound of running water is my favorite sound in the world. I opened my book and continued to read from where I’d left off. This is what I read:

The speed of technology makes the world a smaller and thus more claustrophobic, place.
I believe that there will be for future generations, a feeling of confinement in the world, of incarceration,
which will certainly be at the limit of tolerability, by virtue of the speed of information...
How do we not become so immobilized by the presence of the present all around us, either from the Web, or this constant terrible connectedness that comes from everything from cell phones to IMs to e-mails?

I read that and got all excited inside. I continued to sit on the toilet and muttered to myself a little bit. I flushed the toilet again and waited for it to refill.

In my room, the phone rang. It was my friend.

I said, what’s going on? He said Real Estate.

Real estate real estate real estate real estate.

My head hurt a little bit. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I heard myself saying.

uh huh.

uh huh.

I thought about all of the silence on the phone and my voice digitizing its way through the air.

You’re saying uhhuh uhhuh said my friend.

I said No, I’m listening. I just don’t know what to say. It sounds stressful.

It’s true. I don’t own anything really. Nothing expensive besides my computer. I didn’t know what to say.

I laid down. The stoplight from the street made shadows and stripes of color along the wall and the ceiling. Green, then yellow, then red. The changes were soft. Silent. I thought if I made a movie this is what I’d film. Myself in this bed, looking at the wall, my body floating on this ship of a mattress.

Cars went by and I could hear the whirring of the fan in my room.

I went to sleep. I dreamed about murder and break-ins and horrible things I don’t normally dream about. I dreamed I was having sex with my ex-boyfriend and it was scary and real, and then he was having sex with other people and looking at me. I woke myself up, feeling sick.

It was late. I had slept in again. The curtain was pinned to the sill to block out the sunlight. I’m in this room. I will always wake up in this room.

I walked into the living room. It was dark. I went to the computer and opened it up and went to the front page of the newspaper.

There was an article that said 600,000 Iraqi people have died so far. The study has a margin of error that ranges from 426,369, to 793,663 deaths. I looked at that number.

I thought, Oh no. Don’t write that. You aren’t really going to say that. That’s dumb. That’s didactic. Theater is a space of imagination.

I came back into my room, shut the door and wrote this all down.