Dino Buzzati: The Falling Girl

I wonder if there's anybody who can read into a podcastophone and take dictation of his or her inner monologue simultaneously. I can't, much to my own absolute dismay. If I could, the past half hour would have been written up this way:
Woo! Two fresh short story collections I'd forgotten all about... this'll put the spice back into my podcast. Surely there's got to be something in here, something new for the fine listeners, something to shake it up. Ah, Buzzati, well all right, this'll do... I only barely recall him, but I can pull this off. You know, I'm not even going to bother reading this first; I've so much to do today. Nice title, good name. Oh, magical realism, I'm keen on that, this is a voice I can settle into, damn, HOLY CRAP for I would never say "holy crap" though it's not beyond inner monologue this is the sort of dry urban satire that leaves lesser men with holes in their head. This is perfect, utterly fantastic- I wish I could stop to take a note to read it again more carefully. Why am I podcasting now and not at the bookstore taking all the Buzzati I can find? Wonder which bookstore is going to have some Buzzati in stock? Egad, did I just pause in the reading, shit, I don't remember, there's too much going on here, but I've got to finish this story already, oh if only I could be taking dictation of these thoughts right now. If nothing else, I have nothing better this day with which to preface the podcast, so this will do, right?
But since I can't transcribe these thoughts, I should just that it's been a Very Exciting Half Hour inside these walls.