Pryce's man in the room

The plaster's coming off in the shower and I let it. Stupid, but I wanted to see if the cut was still a cut or if it had become something else. Still a cut. Small comma on the pad of my thumb, like the Moleskine marked me back. Fucksake.

I made pasta because I couldn't think of anything else to do with the hours between five and seven. Ate it at the kitchen table with the notebook open and I just — stared at it for a while. The set list looks different when you're not writing it. When it's finished. It's just a list. Seven minutes and five minutes and one woman driving a Corsa through every room I've ever been afraid of.

Pryce's man in the room. That's what I keep not-thinking about, which means I'm thinking about it constantly. Someone from that audition process sitting in the back of whatever room I get tomorrow, watching me open with my mum at the wheel and close with the thing I haven't told anyone happened. The panic attack set. I've never said it out loud to anyone who wasn't a stranger on stage. Tomorrow someone from a production company hears it and I don't know if that makes it braver or just more calculated.

I read Yara's text again before bed. The kitchen thing. I don't know what it means yet but I keep it there like a weight I can hold. Dee said yes to Soho. That room is real and I want it so badly I could cry, which means I need to sleep, which means I need to stop running the bit in my head and just let it be ready. It is ready. It has to be ready. The comma on my thumb says it's ready.