He wakes up. He shaves. It hurts. It’s cold and his skin is dry, flaking off with the stubble. He eats some meat with barbecue sauce for breakfast and has three coffees. Is that too many coffees for breakfast, he thinks. He does not know the answer. It stops the headaches so it must be enough. He draws more animals and writes more poetry and prepares himself for his one day trip to San Francisco to give her a gift that she probably doesn’t want and she probably doesn’t live there any more but Philip K. Dick used to live nearby so maybe he will go and visit his shrine, his nondescript home. His old boss arrives and it is good to see him and he goes out for drinks and he has two glasses of wine but then he has to go home. Earlier in the day he thought about things and then he stopped thinking about them. He wondered what it would be like if all his fingers and toes were penises and all his orifices were vaginas. He didn’t know what to do with that thought so he made himself a coffee with some chocolate in it and drew a picture of a golden eagle and tried to make cafepress work so he could put his pictures on t-shirts but he couldn’t make it work so he went to sharpen a pencil. He realises that mechanical pencil sharpeners are more work than hand held ones and he now has a circle burnt into his palm from where the end of the pencil spun as he held it into the end of the sharpener, like the body being pulped at the end of Fargo. He is tired when he gets home and he falls asleep before The Daily Show.