People work, not me. I look out the window, look out the window, out the window. Outside it’s winter, and it’s sunny. The doors don’t shut properly, they don’t shut, they’re old. A phone rings through the wall. How come it takes such daunting effort to do what one likes? It’s daunting, daunting to begin. I find it daunting to get started, and that seems not to be a fixable thing. The road to success, the road to success. Who knows? I get tired of myself, I still keep getting tired of myself. As pleasant as I find it here, as pleasant as I find it. Did anyone pick up? In any case, the phone stopped ringing. What works better in fiction? Past or present tense? Weekends make me cranky, I don’t like them, that imperative to have a good time, do things, do something special, the notion of free time. I prefer to seek out those things while other people work. People relaxing tend to look ridiculous, like out of place, grotesque. I’m unmotivated, a little, I realize, bored, overly calm, almost comfortable. I don’t like where I live anymore, I’m fed up, I’m fed up with where I live. I want, somehow, to live differently. I’d take care of it, I’d take care of that baby if he gave it to me, if he wanted to give it to me, if he wanted. I think I could be a good mother, I think so, I think I’d like to be a good mother, I think so. I don’t know where my mind is, I don’t know what I’m thinking about, I couldn’t put it into words, couldn’t specify, couldn’t. I don’t know what I’m up to, if I were asked what I was up to, I’d have no idea what to say, how to respond, what I’m up to. I know I get tired, every so often I get tired, I get exhausted and I no longer want what I had and want something else, something, something else. Waiting until the moment bursts, waiting until the moment bursts, what is that? Anxiety is never too good. At some point someone said it was the other side of despair, and I thought that sounded right. The backwaters abduct you, sometimes it’s like a kind of barge that carries you away. Now my place in Buenos Aires depresses me a little. I haven’t cleaned in months. I don’t want to sleep in my room, I haven’t wiped or dusted in months. Months. I want to get rid of all my books, all my CDs, most of all all the books I already read, why would I want them? I don’t want them, I’d give them all away. I want to talk to people, I feel like expressing myself. With someone, with someone new, someone else, someone different, someone who might cast some new light on the situation. There are certain people I just stopped seeing and never ran into again and that’s fine. I’m bored. Outside, in the city, there’s the clamor that cities have, on Friday afternoons, the chaos of cities on Friday afternoons. Not here, here in some sense it’s always the same time of day, the same day. There people come and go at full speed, in action. At full speed. While I, here, am quiet and tired, I get tired because I’m bored, I get tired when I’m bored and it makes me want to sleep, which is the only thing I want to do, is sleep. The same blocks, the same neighborhoods, always: the same thing that suddenly one day gives me a feeling of empowerment another day overwhelms me. I am me, that’s my impossibility. There, once again, the only thing that can save you is fiction. I mean, whenever you can, when it gives you access. What isn’t fiction consumes you. I don’t want either breaks or obligations, although, obviously, I prefer obligations. I wouldn’t know what to do without them. Live from event to event, as though it’s nothing. Have kids to while away the time, even if that’s all it is, to spend some time. Which is no small thing, spending time. I’m bored. I don’t even know at this point what would be my idea of an adventure. I want to not want, not need anything. I already don’t need anything, I already almost hate where I live, exclusively because I can’t leave, that’s already a good reason, I want to get out of there, I mean I’m almost never there anyway as it is, it’s already mostly just a storage unit and a dust collector. I have to get it together enough to get to a different place, to be, to stay at, let it not be here, or yes, I don’t know, try to understand where I want to be. Getting out of there is an imperative at this point, right? And my books and my CDs I would give to someone, the new tenant, let them come with the house, let them stay, let them lose their history, lose me, let them stray away from me, let them forget me, with no hard feelings, just do without me. I can’t be there any longer, I can’t. Unconformity and comfort, everything all together at once.