text: > Describe the surroundings
  There was a professor at uni in Melbourne who was sacked for living in an office smaller than this. He had a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock, as my mum would say.
  
  You've a big desk in front of a window, a gorgeous yellow chair, a cabinet in one corner, a giant cactus in another, and a tall bookcase on the back wall with an incredibly cute stool. The door is west.
  
  On the desk are your computer, my itinerary, a cleverly framed picture and a pile you cannot even contemplate. A fabulously intricate origami trophy sits on top of the cabinet. The bookcase contains a book and a smartly-done snowglobe. A wastebasket is on the floor.
  
  Warren is playing "My Lonesome Pain is Not A Polka" from We Paid You For Happy, the artistic breakthrough composed while he supported himself with gigs at family reunions and retirement centres.
  
  > look in the wastebasket
  It's the standard issue University Dreary--sullen cousin of University Drab--metal wastebasket.
  
  A wad of gum is stuck to the wastebasket's rim.
  
  > take the gum
  You pull the gum off the wastebasket's rim. Ick.
  
  > put the gum in the pouch
  You put the piece of Two Bob Slobber bubble gum into the rubber square's "pouch".
  
  You're looking out the window again. Two aliens step through the hatch, green skin and giant foreheads. Eight other aliens jump out of the bushes and start attacking the pirates and zombies with these silver sticks that have a chartreuse coil wrapped around them.
  
  > shoot the pen
  The gum is maybe not quite dense enough to work. It flies in a looping arc and hits the ceiling several inches from the sprinkler without much velocity.
  
  > take the gum
  Yours, crunchie.
  
  > look under the desk
  Underneath your desk you see the amethyst-encrusted Sword Of Dissertator Melancholia.
  
  Warren is playing from Drumsticks, the bootleg album recorded during a performance at a family fried chicken restaurant.
  
  > examine Sword
  Wallaroo. I was just kidding about there being a hitherto unnoticed "Sword Of Dissertator Melancholia" under your desk.
  
  > look at Sword
  Don't belabour the joke. There is no sword here.
  
  > Xyzzy
  That time on the sixth floor of the library:
  "Violet, that was-- that was--"
  "Magical?"
  "How did you do that?"
  "Any sufficiently awesome girlfriend is indistinguishable from magic."
  
  > move the wastebasket
  Moving the wastebasket around your office isn't going to accomplish anything, cheese nip.
  
  Warren is playing "You With the Notepad," the stunning and entirely improvised final track done without once breaking eye contact with a woman later identified as Francine Kinkle, music editor for a local college newspaper.
  
  > examine the frame
  As I said, I took the concert flier from our first "date" and made it into a hard plastic laminate--you know, like a Shrinky Dink. I made a clear plastic sheet the same size to go over the front of the photograph. Then I fused a sturdy binder clip to the two pieces to hold everything in place.
  
  > examine clip
  I've fused the binder clip to the rest of the frame. You can't do anything to it without breaking the frame, which, it goes without saying, has considerable sentimental value for us both.
  
  > look in the trophy
  It's exactly the same shape as the trophy they give to the winner of Sydney's Marathon. Bright fuchsia lines curl in and out of the folds.
  
  I am going to be so angry if you're hiding a story about Julia doing some kind of Pavlovian conditioning experiments on you with the perfume when the two of you dated.*
  
  > Aside
  Don't even try to act like that's implausible. Julia is so twisted. This is the woman who once asked if she could put on an album of recorded 911 calls while the two of you were intimate. (And you continued dating her afterwards! Unbelievable!)
  
  > Unfold trophy
  You take the trophy I made for you and methodically unfold it. I cannot decide whether to be exasperated or moved by how you are so careful not to tear it. You're now holding a crumply sign, about a metre square.
  
  Ugh. I was so excited to give you that trophy. I realise you are desperate because you don't want me to leave. You can do this. I am cheering for you.
  
  > examine the sign
  It's all crumply now. The bright fuchsia letters say:
  
  FAVOURITE!
  
  > cover the window with the sign
  (putting the crumply sign on the sill)
  You put the sign on the sill. The sign and the blind together now block the view out your window entirely.
  
  > throw rubber at the pen
  It's too flappy. It ends up just fluttering to the floor.
  
  You look up at the ceiling again. "Colin finished his Ph.D. Colin has a job at Yale." Colin is not germane to your current predicament.
  It's just a pen.
  
  > take the rubber
  Yours, teacake.
  
  > examine the floor
  It's drab and would look much better if we found a rug that matched the chair. (I'm not sure why I am so preoccupied with your office decor when what I want is for you to finish so we can get out of Madison.)
  
  The floor slopes alarmingly downward over in the corner by the cactus, like that whole part of the room may be about to collapse.
  
  On your floor is a wastebasket.
  
  > look at the walls
  Remember how Marty hung a couple of his paintings when this was his office? I wish you'd put up at least a couple posters. Your walls are so dreary and bare. Not anything to worry about today, of course.
  
  The lightswitch is on the wall by the door.
  
  > examine the lightswitch
  It's just an ordinary lightswitch. The light is on.
  
  Warren is playing the title track from Francine. (Actually, all 37 songs on the album are officially titled "Francine.")
  
  > look at the light
  It's a long, unadorned fluorescent bulb, like there is in all the other graduate student offices in the building. I am so glad I bought the happy light for my studio. There is no way I would get work done during the winter in Madison without it. I'm so glad it's finally spring.
  
  > look at chair
  It was just some dreary old office chair that they dragged up from the basement for you, but then I came up one weekend with this amazing yellow veloury-pleatherish fabric and upholstered it.
  
  > take the snowglobe
  Yours, marshmallow twimble. I still can't believe I stayed up two nights straight making it.
  
  Warren is playing the song unofficially titled "Parking Garage," following the convention of identifying tracks on Francine by the location of the tryst the liner notes say inspired them.
  
  > examine it
  It's a glass globe with a plain wooden bottom. Inside is a happy winter scene, with a paunchy, smiling figurine in a white outfit and snow up to his ankles. His hands look like they are covered with chocolate.
  
  > break it
  But, you said you thought it was brilliant. Why would you want to break it?
  
  > shake it
  You shake the globe vigorously. The snow starts swirling around the globe, turning pink and then red.
  
  Remember? Watching television at midnight:
  "The Saskatoon Strangler. He killed six people before being arrested by the mounties in 1986."
  "A documentary about a serial killer at bedtime?"
  "Only six people, Violet. Plus, he worked as a confectioner!"
  "If I can't sleep, you can't complain about the noise when I start working on something."
  
  Warren is playing "Booth Seven at Steak'n'Shake," the track on Francine that got him tour dates opening for ironic death metal icon Jimmy Catkicker.
  
  > look at the bottom shelf
  You see nothing special about the bottom shelf.
  
  You're distracted by Julia's perfume again. I'm sure she sprayed on a second gallon this morning just to sidetrack you.
  
  > Examine book
  Sure, the book looks like something you'd find interesting. I'm not going to describe its contents any further, though, as I don't want to risk enticing you to start reading it.
  
  > examine the pile
  It's detritus from teaching, a couple unfinished side projects, and the earlier dissertation topic that you asked We Never Speak Of Again.
  It's been accumulating and now makes you feel too overwhelmed even to contemplate.
  
  Except today, when you absolutely must write, you are feeling an overwhelming urge to tidy it.
  
  > Search pile
  What you really feel compelled to do with the pile is tidy it.
  
  > Tidy pile
  You pick up one thing, then put it back down. You pick up another then put that down. You start thinking that what you really need is comprehensive office-straightening solution. You're thinking about making a diagram, maybe a spreadsheet.
  
  STOP. This is not what you should be doing today.
  
  Out of the pile, however, you do pick up a potato gem.
  
  > examine the gem
  (I always forget they aren't called potato gems here. Just like I can never remember that it's "cotton candy" instead of "fairy floss.")
  
  I think you brought tater tots for your lunch a fortnight ago. I hope it's not older than that.
  
  Warren is playing from his follow-up album to Francine, which was also titled Francine.
  
  > put the gem in the pouch
  You put the tater tot into the rubber square's "pouch".
  
  > shoot the pen
  You're a very good shot. I guess you were serious about that spooky bowhunting uncle. The tater tot misses the pen by less than half an inch and hits the wall, where it shatters.
  
  I think you've the right idea, though. One more shot and I bet you'll hit it.
  
  > examine the desk
  It's an enviable desk, even if someone did die on it. On top are your computer, my itinerary, a cleverly framed picture and a pile you cannot even contemplate.
  
  The desk's drawer is empty. A wastebasket is on the floor to the left.
  
  Warren is playing excerpts from "Why?," originally an eighty-three minute song in which he stops playing once to cry and twice to leave voicemails for Francine.
  
  > write
  (first sitting on chair)
  Within three minutes you've taken the cable out of the cabinet and are watching a video of a dog dressed as a ballerina. Oh, plucky wombat. If you can't be disciplined, then you'll have to be clever.
  
  You do unplug the cable again and lock it back in the cabinet. Now, what to do with the key?
  
  > put key in the pouch
  You put the shiny little key into the rubber square's "pouch".
  
  > shoot the pen
  The key isn't going to work. It gets half-stuck coming out of the pouch and then just flutters to the floor.
  
  > take the key
  Yours, plucky wombat.
  
  > put the gum in the pouch
  You put the piece of Two Bob Slobber bubble gum into the rubber square's "pouch".
  
  Warren is playing "It's Because He Plays Guitar, Isn't it?"
  
  > take the gum
  Yours, honeytoast.
  
  > put the gum on the key
  Clever, wonkabar. Unfortunately, the gum's not that sticky. You'd just peel it off again.
  
  > Chew gum
  When I made you try it before, you said that it tastes sort of like American bubble gum, only if one added soy sauce, pieces of pickled meat, and a bit of blood.
  
  And add to that now a strong mildew taste. Yuck. You gag and spit the gum back out.
  
  > put the gum on key
  Unfortunately, the gum's not that sticky. You'd just peel it off again.
  
  Don't think you can stealthy-sniff and I won't notice. You need to get over that perfume.
  
  > Break frame
  You try to break the frame gently. I fused the binder clip well, however, so you end up having to pull and twist to get it apart. When you do, the front and back each break into several pieces, and so what is now on the desk along with the binder clip and photograph are some pitiful little plastic shards.
  
  Obviously I won't be able to repair it.
  
  I loved that frame. I'm not sure what you are expecting me to say. Hooray?
  
  Remember when I handed you the itinerary last night? Your response: "So I have tomorrow. What do I need to do?"
  
  > take the clip
  "Please," I told you, "I don't want yet another promise."
  "I will write tomorrow. I will write every day until it is done."
  "You won't. You'll have reasons, excuses. Maybe more lies. I can't believe you've been lying--"
  "Violet, I will write one thousand words tomorrow. I will bring the pages to you as proof. I will do this every day."
  
  > put clip in the pouch
  Then I covered my face with my hands because otherwise I wouldn't have been able to say it:
  "You won't. I know you believe that you will. But you won't actually do it."
  "Of course I will, Violet. I have to."
  "And yet you won't. That's how we're stuck. I can't keep waiting and pretending. Every day? Budgie, you won't even do it tomorrow."
  "I will. One thousand words. Nothing will stop me."
  
  I need for you to write today. I wish you could just sit and type. I realise you can't. Of course it hurts to watch you destroy things I spent days making for you. But do whatever you must. I don't want to leave you.
  Just because you are imagining me doesn't mean I'm a mindreader.
  
  > put the clip in the pouch
  You need to be holding the binder clip before you can put it into something else.
  
  You start doing your Colin imitation. "Why, Violet, as I was reading the proofs of my second book last night, I started thinking about that boyfriend of yours. How is he? Still fussing about not having a pen?"
  
  > take the clip
  Yours, jellysquish.
  
  > put clip in the pouch
  You put the binder clip into the rubber square's "pouch".
  
  > put the clip on nose
  (first taking the binder clip)
  You've put the binder clip on your nose.
  
  > Smell
  I don't see what you are talking about.
  
  You can't smell anything now that you've a binder clip on your nose, so you're liberated from Julia's perfume ruining your concentration.
  
  > write
  (first sitting on chair)
  Within three minutes you've taken the cable out of the cabinet and are watching a video of a dog dressed as a ballerina. Oh, chutney. If you can't be disciplined, then you'll have to be clever.
  
  You do unplug the cable again and lock it back in the cabinet. Now, what to do with the key?
  
  > examine photo
  I've already described the photograph of me with the giant foam lobster on my head. I am definitely worth a thousand words.
  
  Warren is playing from Listen, one of the few known albums in which a single artist plays guitar and accordion simultaneously.