In the beginning there must have been a word, though what it was I can’t recall. An introduction. Some pleasantry, banal. In the beginning was a word—and then another, and another. We talked and talked and talked.

I worked in business for ten years, and for part of it, I did sales. I did sales like a rat. I did sales like a slime worm begging for trash food. I was meek and embarrassed and acutely aware of the shittiness of me, taking up time in that other person’s day, trying to sell them something . . .

What does the world look like? What is the world? And what is Gaza? I had been trapped in it for all thirty-one years of my life, and had not left once.

In elementary school I was cast as MLK for a short play on his life. I didn’t want the role, the pressure of being a focal point. I would’ve rather been a nondescript townsperson or even a tree.

The internet discussion goes on and on, at least in my head. So many angles to it. The one that interests me now has to do with generations, with the formation of outlooks and sensibilities. The internet changed everything, no question.

On the 6th of October—after almost a year of war—tanks surround Jabalia camp for the second time, attacking hospitals and preventing anyone from entering or leaving. People flood into our area laden with belongings, barrels of water, crates of food and drink, blankets and mattresses.