He wakes up. He is obsessed. He lusts. He is sensual. He photographs clouds. He watches a film. He goes to a folk festival. He complains about the heat. He revels in an air conditioned room. He misses connections. He has depraved fantasies. He has too much fucking ear hair – great thick shrubs of hair spewing out of aural orifices. He gets transparent and soaked in the hot rain. He watches a needlessly complicated yet thoroughly entertaining Hong Kong thriller – men being men and women being submissive ciphers and not acting like any human beings he has ever met. He eats dumplings and applies for jobs. He has more sensual thoughts. He is bitten by mosquitoes and heat He photographs rotting fruit and watches a documentary about Ai Wai Wai, about sushi, about the human condition, about poverty, about cnbc, about mouse traps. He eats toast. He drinks coffee with almond chocolate milk. He jogs. He cycles. He masturbates. He exercises. He has sex. He watches Soul Eater. He is overwrought. He sleeps.