He wakes up. He hopes that his car window will close this morning. He knows that it will not close this morning but he wishes that it will close this morning. He thinks about the hot chocolate that he had before bed last night and he wished that it was sex with a woman instead. He also wishes that he had brushed his teeth after the hot chocolate because his mouth is thick with stink and decay. He manages to get the heater to work in his car so he speeds along the highway hat ears flapping as the heating system battles with the intense cold. He is late for work again. He needs a job that will allow him to write in bed all day, like Proust. He meanders around the office and finds out about other jobs. Then he has some lunch and he talks to two senators who will never remember his name and then he tries to fix his car window with serran wrap but it tears as he drives home and flaps and whips in his face like transparent skin until he gets the chance to stop and tear it out of the space where the window used to be. He takes some photographs that he will probably make black and white later on and then he reads some of his new book, Professor Munakata’s British Museum Adventure and then he goes to sleep.