He wakes up. He is refreshed. He showers. He eats toast with honey on it and he eats toast with jam on it and he walks to the bus and on the way he sees the carcass of a deer that he walked past the night before but now it’s belly is open and exposed it’s guts glistening with every passing car rigid with it’s eyes open. He walked past it last night and it’s eyes this morning are as glazed as they were the night before and as glazed as they were when it was alive no doubt and being slashed open by the front of a large car. He plays with blocks and he walks to the train station and he eats a sandwich and he feels the muscles of his bones sharp and tight and bunching in happiness in knots around his body as he stretches and remembers the joy of the weekend. He sees that Russel Brand is still being critiqued in ways that are unsurprising. Chris Hedges is still angry and impassioned. Each little echo chamber takes the information that funnels into it and listens to the pretty sounds as it bounces around inside off the shiny walls just like this little echo chamber. Then he reads about the rising popularity of blackface this halloween and wonders if it is more popular this year or if he is just noticeing it more this year. So much ignorance – the global hobby. One he practises with regularity and, when it is exposed as it always is, embarassment redress and enlightenment – until the next time. He eats a sandwich. He watches the television and the decadence sickens him not only because he is thinking of the poor who are sacrificed on it’s altar but also because he has tasted that decadence and he is jealous and that sickens him too. He discovers his werewolf name is Rogue Warrior through an online game and thinks this is a shit name. He passes uninterrupted through the rest of the day and then he goes to bed.