On Friday it was my job to make lists—lists of people I know. That sounds like an anxiety dream. I went around a circle with a piece of paper writing down people’s names. But it was obvious that I didn’t know the names of people that I  have known for, on average, something like four years. Now I’m trying to write a story in Future’s, but I am weighed down by a feeling that writing anything would be impossible. Even writing my own name. I told my friend, S, that I feel like I want to crawl into a room—any room, as long as the lights were turned off. As long as there was a bank of cushions leaned up against the wall. Something is making me very upset—but perhaps nothing more than my refusal to accept that it’s time to do nothing more serious than enter and exit rooms.

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