I walked home from an all-day work session at the library, thinking about how I had not had a single conversation in person. My limited supply of observational skills and questionable wit was getting used up trying to compose the perfect witty response to text messages.

When I got to my apartment door, there was a little dead mouse on the pavement. Probably a present from a neighborhood cat. At that moment, I felt a buzz in my pocket, and realized my friend Maya was calling. We live in the same city, but somehow catch up on the phone more than in person.

Upstairs, I lay down on the red couch, and told her about how I was thinking of starting a blog chronicling a daily encounter with another human. It would be a good writing exercise for my fiction, I explained; a rather embarrassing indication of how often I see my mom; a way to keep me aware of how little I interact with people other than college-educated northeast coast liberals; and a more detailed record of my bakery transactions than my credit card can provide.

Most of my days are pleasant and unremarkable, I reasoned, but maybe recording them would help distinguish one from the next.

“Who are you going to write about first?” Maya asked. “The mouse doesn’t count.“