What matters? What disqualifies someone as a good idea? And while I'm asking questions, what is that thing called that you can run sound through, and then sort of shift it on an axis? When you have something that's only on the left and you want to fake that it was recorded in stereo? I forget.

Yesterday was a nice day, and it's good to look at things that I never look at, good to walk down streets I never do. I'm afraid, sometimes, of saying the wrong things, but it makes me never say anything right. I could talk about nothing until the end of the world. I've read too much, and now I'm made of words, like a person whose skin has turned orange from eating too many carrots.

My discomfort only makes more, like a miracle of science.

I went to the radio show, and it was the best idea. Michael bought me a beer and we had a nice talk about bad ideas. Sort of. He can be hard on me sometimes, but when I need soft he's really good at it. The Captain showed up after a bit, and Francis called the Egg to tell him he was at home listening, surprisingly. They had an conversation online that we all loved, and then when Francis wanted to talk to me Michael went on in my stead, but Michael can only be Michael, and Francis knows my whacks too well. We sent an email to the World's Worst Girl, and it was mean-spirited, but at least it was clever. And really, she's been horrible to everyone who was ever good to her, it seems. The songs were perfect tonight, and Michael and the Egg are so good at playing songs that I love and haven't ever heard before. All my favorite songs, all brand new.

There was no one for afterward, so we ran late and then let the archives play while we listened to whatever we felt like in the station. Somehow, for some reason, the Captain and the Egg started doing the best dances anyone's ever done while Michael and I watched and smiled and laughed, and I don't know that I've ever been happier than just then. The moon isn't full, but it's close. Later, the wrong train came, but it was better and all mine. I was the only one on it for so long, and I got to walk down it from one end to the other, loud, late night tunnel adventures, no one in the world but me and the clanging doors and the lights flashing in the dark.

Now, now, now is the fact that I'm poor and indecisive. I want to do things the way G.P. does. It looks like a bad idea, but I don't think it is. I think it's the only idea I'll be able to feel good about. I've spent years waiting to know, but it doesn't work that way. I'm only killing time, and there's only so much.