- February 27th, 19:10
I was walking downtown, alone, and thinking about being murdered, as I sometimes like to do. And I am not so much afraid of the dark or of my death as I am how it would affect other people. And I was thinking about Creighton, and the policeman or detective or coroner who would be tasked with asking him to identify my body, and how he would react. And that there is someone in this smallish sleepy city of ours who actually does that, who has to knock on someone's door and tell them that someone else is dead, and I wonder if they hate their job, or how they go home to their family at night and try to scrub the blood and death and spirit off their hands before serving dinner. And that seems so foreign, so cinematic, but even beneath the shiny veneer the city planners laid thickly on Main Street in the past 10 years, murder is still a thing, and death comes for us all. And I was thinking about the construction people who are working on the new highrise downtown, and whether they wonder about falling, at least at first, and if they wonder about dying, and I wonder about their families. And I wonder what they say when people ask them, "Where do you work?" Do they say, "See that new highrise downtown? I work up there." Or "I work with the construction company that's building the new highrise" or "I work in construction," or maybe they go home at the end of the day and drink a beer and look at their cat and no one ever asks them, "Where do you work" or "what do you do for a living." And I was thinking about how even though I'm alone on this particular walk downtown, there are a millionsomething people living in this area, and how many are passing me right now? And how many people would hear me if I scream? And how many of them are just law-abiding citizens trying to get home? And I was thinking about everyone I've ever left behind, or the idea of everyone I've ever left behind, and about the story I still haven't edited for a friend, and about how I should be doing that instead of wandering introspectively to the library. And I was thinking about Going Into The Room, but how I know I won't, because I can't or am not smart enough or maybe perhaps don't want to, and I'm not even sure if I like looking in the room, if I like the metaphysical postmodern drama. And I was thinking about how there are always the most unexpected people at the library, and how I know that's partially because they now have Internet but sometimes I like to believe its because of the books, that all these people are secret scholars that go home after working on the highrises and read Faulkner. And I was thinking about how I knew what I was going to say when I sat down to write this, and then I forgot most of it, and it never turns out how I want it to, and what that even means.