2004-12-02 - 8:06 a.m.

Yesterday I learned that the middle pole in a washing machine is called the "agitator rod," so the word "agitate" has been lingering in my head ever since, especially last night, lying in bed, thoughts running through my head like sand, unable to sleep. When morning finally comes, I am breathless. The world stares back at me, real and terrible, indifferent. Just like in my dreams, every sound I make comes from a plain a million miles away, echoing back, distorted, and provoking no reaction. When it's early, and you're staring into the face of insomnia the way you would into a loaded gun, every action is futile.