He wakes up. It has been snowing. It soon turns to ice. He read Ulysees, the James Joyce version Ulysees: remix – Ulysees: redux. He reads 100 pages at a time then breaks the stress on his brain with an episode of Archer which is a cartoon and pretends to be above such things as racism and sexism whilst embodying them. Look how we all laugh and wrap ourselves in irony as we commit the same social crimes as those people we are criticising. Then he has some toast and too many coffees with mint creamer so he twitches for a while in bed. His head hurts. It is too cold to go anywhere. He misses the woman he loved and ruined. Then he watches a documentary about Fela Kuti and then about Martin Luther King and James Earl Ray. He writes some of his one sentence novel about revelations about the disappearance of his father. He wants to write more but he is depressed so he stops doing that and sleeps the uncomfortable sleep of the morose. He considers what of the big books he will read next. He thinks that he will tackle Proust. He realises now that he does not need to understand these books. He simply has to put in the time, work the man hours at staring at the pages and absorbing the words because no one reads these books he can say what he likes about what they mean because we are all individuals and it no longer matters what the author intended because he let the book escape into the world and not it belongs to him and everyone else. Actually having read it will bring added cache to his opinions to the book none of which will change significantly from those opinions he had in public before reading the book.