Wash, Rinse, Repeat

There is something about yesterday that I should try not to repeat today.

I slide another piece of paper into the typewriter bale.

Scrick! Scrick! Ching!

The paper's loaded. The ribbon is set. I type the date:

May 31, 2025

My fingers rest lightly on the keys, ready. They rest...and rest...and rest...

Here we go again, same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. I look over on my writing table: a stack almost two inches thick, containing nothing but the date and the same short sentence. Since March 3, my birthday—not a single other idea in the world comes to mind. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I'm either blocked or obsessed, and I can't tell which it is. That kind of bothers me but...it still doesn't put any words on the page.

My fingers twitch, but push no keys. My mind wanders. It wanders to last night. The car in the field; the mist along the fresh turned earth; the steady sounds of insects, water, softly falling earth. I feel myself smile wistfully. It was so peaceful. I look down at the keys; but nothing is happening there.

Instead, I examine my fingers. They're still dirty; I am mildly alarmed—I am fanatical about washing my hands, especially under the nails. Safer that way.

The troubled feeling fades as I drift again...the field...the shovel...the night sounds...

I feel my fingers moving, pressing keys! I look down at the paper, vaguely disappointed to see nothing new, only the same sentence as every other day. I finish, pull the paper from the machine, and set it on the stack.

I look down at the pile, each page virtually the same as all the others:

May 31, 2025:

I dug the hole a little deeper last night; soon all the bodies will fit.

(290 words)