He wakes up. He feels he has barely been asleep. He goes to yoga. It is good yoga. It is busy yoga. He is like a sardine in a can squashed up against other people on the floor crated and sweating but it is not as bad as all that. He enjoys himself and he is more bendy and he replies to the text message from the lovely woman and she replies to his text message and there is some mutual replying and then there is no more communication and he has no time to draw conclusions about this because he has to take a shower and he has to eat some food and he has to fold his laundry and then he goes to the swimming pool and he swims in the swimming pool and then he reads some poems and then he continues to enjoy the self-imposed news black out and he almost manages his porn black out but not quite but he justifies it because he argues to himself that porn is at least more honest about what it is whereas the news is not. He does not convince himself but he holds to it anyway. Then he eats some food and then he reads and then he thinks and he reflects on the happiest weekend he has had in a long time. He goes to sleep and his eyes are comfortably smarting from the chlorine of the pool and the memories associated with the day.