He wakes up to Stackolee the same song he wakes up to every morning. He turns on Way to early as he always does changing the channel from the Comedy Channel from where he finished watching The Colbert Report last night with the memories of an awkward interview with William Shatner, as he always does. Then he showers. Then he collects his writings and drawings together so he can have something to do at work during the day. He is enjoying the fact that he now seems to have most of the day to pursue his own projects. Projects that now, given that he now has little else to live for, will actually be completed, and loved, and respected, and be feted by critics and public alike. Then he leaves the house into the cold wet still black dawn. He keeps checking his text messages and his emails but there are no messages from the woman he lost. He draws pictures all day and colours them in like a feverish child in an art class who doesn’t want to go out to play. Later he watches porn and thinks that he has headphones on but when he finishes he realises that the headphones haven’t worked and the echoing moaning of the participants has been bouncing round the house the entire time for his landlord and housemates to hear whilst he has been wrapped in his own filthy guilt. He cringes and then reads some Proust. It is another day when he steps one life further away from the one he wants to have.