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He wakes up. It is early. Chatter on the radio. Before sunrise it is cool. Then it rains. He showers. He has no deodorant. He does not look forward to later in the day when all of his pheromones will be filling the work environment, driving his colleagues wild. He will not be driving his colleagues wild. He has an egg sandwich and a coffee for breakfast. He looks down at his belly. It is distended and hairy. He needs to do even the most basic exercise. He knows that masturbation does not count as exercise. Even if he breaks a sweat doing it. Then there is a shooting in DC and there is a lock down and then the rest of the day is rumours and speculation and then the name of the shooter is revealed but even this may not be true and then his ex-wife asks him when he went all black power and he replies he has always, in some way, been black power. Then he misses his stop on the way home because he is reading a book about Europe then he thinks he probably has a stalker and that will teach him not to try and meet people online and then provide every piece of personal information including where he lives and where he works and all of his contact details and then when the interactions go sour there will be no let up no let up at all and every public tragedy and event is used as an excuse to contact him but still he ignores in the hope that it will stop but he rather fears it will not stop even as he is told that she is coming to the East Coast soon all too soon that will teach him to contact anyone on the internet for sordid things. He will probably not learn his lesson but he eats a bagel and reads a bit more about the depthless depravity of Europe and then he goes to sleep less worried than he might be.

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