(Last updated 5/26/03)

Act One

Meanwhile, back in the city.... Two nights of insomnia. In this room, in the dark...listening... soaking up the Stravinsky of it... No end to the sounds in a city...  Something happens somewhere, makes a noise, the sound travels, charts the distance: The Story of a Moment.

God, I need to sleep!

Yes. All right. Begin.

My mother was taken to the hospital where they did very good work. My brother ran away, but only as far as the laundry room of our building, where he hid in a closet for ten hours until someone thought to check there. My brother returned, my mother returned. Nobody said anything. And it was over.

Reconstruct along with me a moment. You are this young man. Ambitious, of course—what architect isn't ambitious? And it's that moment when you're so bursting with feeling that people aren't enough, your art isn't enough, you need something else, some other way to let out everything that's in you.

You buy this notebook, this volume into which you can pour your most secret, your deepest and illicit passions. You bring it home, commence—the first sacred jottings—the feelings you couldn't contain:

"April 3rd to April 5th: Three days of rain."

A weather report. A fucking weather report!

And I'm really hungry—I haven't eaten anything but star fruit all day—but we have to wait while he sits—in the cold for which I am responsible—for him to gather his wits and tell us it's all right to eat. And I feel bad because he's in so much pain—

...if some oracle told you were going kill your father and marry your mother, wouldn't you just never kill anybody and stay single?...And then, if you did inadvertently kill somebody, in the heat of the moment or something, and later started dating, wouldn't you be smart enough to, like, avoid older women? I mean, to me the moral of that story is not your destiny awaits you. To me it's...Do the Fucking Math.
I don't know—I feel bad—I go to the gym—I feel better. Maybe that means I lack gravitas or something, but the hell with it, I'm having a good time.

I mean, like all that time when Nan and I were sleeping together and in love and everything and we couldn't tell you because we were so afraid of how jealous you'd be, and we couldn't tell each other why we couldn't tell you because nobody was acknowledging any aspect of the situation—it was crazy, that felt awful—I hated lying to you. Like it or not, you're my oldest friend. I love you, you know, and what was the point? Everything is tolerable if you just talk about it, you know?

(Beat. Silence between Walker and Nan.)

You know? (Beat) Was that all new information?

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