He wakes up. He hasn’t written for a while but it seems to make no difference because no matter the gap between each entry into his journal nothing much seems to change. Politicians keep politicking, Wars keep waging, Trash keeps growing and he sees that the projects for the kids at school about protecting the future of the Earth are the same projects that he had to do when he was a child twenty five years ago. No one pays attention to Children’s Projects. The Projects of Children are cooed at and then ignored. He has been reading a lot and even writing a lot and is making progress of a sort with his life. He is sad to learn that Maurice Sendak has died. He liked his books and now he is dead. A bomb plot was foiled, he learnt yesterday, but was it a real bomb plot or was it another FBI sting carried out with people too stupid to realise they were being manipulated by bored government employees? He cannot say but that often seems to be the case. He is sure that it is a real bomb plot and a real threat. Why would they lie? Why would they lie at all? Surface to air missiles are being placed atop the apartment blocks of London to protect the athletes from who? Aliens? Communists? Decepticons? It seems to be a little over the top. Then he meets up with a friend after work and they eat falafal and walk around the city that they are in at that moment and find dark alleys and do unspeakable things to one another and then he goes home and he sees a giant insect scrabbling across the floor of his bedroom that he is convinced was the size of a mouse but it couldn’t have been that big because it was an insect. Then he goes to sleep but his skin crawls as he does so because he imagines the creature will crawl on him and into him while he sleeps.