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He wakes up. He has a telephone job interview today. He isn’t nervous but he is also nervous. He has a coffee and then spends the next half hour shitting because he needs to shit. It is not pleasant. Then he lays out all of his notes in front of him on the kitchen table and this includes his resume and his cover letter and the various details he gave for the job that he is about to be interviewed for. Then the phone rings and the man answers and the interview goes well for a while and then it stops going well and he watches it going badly and he cannot do anything about it going badly but he tries to right the ship but he cannot right the ship and he thinks later on hours later on in the day the answers to the questions and the responses he should have given but it is too late for that because he has already ruined that particular chance but he is sanguine and he is not too worried because he is a poet and an artist and a writer and he has enough money to live and he has enough food to eat and he has enough drink to drink but he is still irritated with himself. Then a beautiful woman flirts with him and he thinks that it must be an accident but then it happens again and he thinks that it probably isn’t an accident but then he does’t know what to do with this so he ignores it and he wonders at the Pope and why there is the Pope and why it is so important and why there is no criticism of the Pope and the office and his past and his past and the facts seem to plain yet they all go unspoken so he writes some poetry and he draws some pictures and he drinks some wine and he reads some poetry and he listens to some radio and he lies in some bed and he goes to some sleep.

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