He wakes up. He rechecks for texts and on all of his email addresses but he finds nothing from her. It is her birthday soon but he realises somewhere deep down that it probably wouldn’t be a great idea to contact her and wish her a happy birthday but he feels her in his veins, pumping through his heart and he can’t stop doing these irrational things. He goes to work and he writes his novel all day and yet he still remains stuck in the woods, literally stuck in the woods because that’s where the first three chapters take place and he keeps adding details and details and foreshadowing to parts 2 and parts 3 until the plot grinds to a halt stuck in the thick entwined branches of chapter 2. He eats some fish and then goes for a drink with a friend and wants to tell him all about the weekend before but he doesn’t and instead has two glasses of red wine and then some dumplings and his friend’s girlfriend arrives and there is more conversation but he has to leave to go home to wish those he loves a goodnight and he does that and reads a Canticle For Leibowitz because he needs a break from Atlas Shrugged because he feels that it’s killing him and even though it’s just a book it definitely seems to be killing him. Everything is killing him. He sleeps drunk.