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2001-07-20 | 2:52 p.m.

Modern life and its juxtapositions: I'm writing a letter to a person I'm mildly frightened of about a book I haven't read while worrying about dead and (more to the point) not-yet-dead anarchists in Italy, as well as their mothers, and deleting porn come-ons mixed up with staccato bulletins from other, armchair anarchists and music fans, faint praise, and sharp-eyed queries from my not-quite-bosses, while eyeing another piece of dreck (or more precisely, its small but guilt-inducing button in my Microsoftian system tray) that I'm supposed to be writing for the corporati and trying to remind myself that I'm thawing meat for lunch, which will cease to be lunch if I keep forgetting about it.

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