He wakes up. He likes being asleep so he is unhappy to be woken up by the light and his body and the requirement to go to work for a living so that he can get money to buy food and shelter. He reads more of Thomas Piketty’s book Capital in the 21st Century and starts to read Beyond the Whiteness of Whiteness by Jane Lazarre. He listens to a skinny young child talk about taking a year off. Words like ethnic, exotic, experience, character-building fly thick and fast out of the young child’s mouth. Does it mean anything? Other than signifiers of white male privilige not very much or that the rest of the world is a playground and a classroom for the paler peoples of the planet. Life is happening elsewhere. He drinks some elderflower drink. It transports him back to many years ago to a lovely time when he picked elderflowers with a friend and subtle elderflower champagne was made and fermented and he probably spent far too much time at his friends house but everyone was too polite to say anything but he is old now and on another continent so it probably doesn’t matter how we make mistakes and don’t see the signs and overstay our welcome and try to escape the inescapable. He watches Cosmos and it fills his heart with joy and he naps. He walks past a wall and on the wall there is a piece of plastic. The piece of plastic flaps in the wind. It makes a hard noises as it hits the wall. It does not seem to serve any purpose. It is not covering an opening or a broken window. It is just nailed into a brick wall.. Maybe it is street art. He saves some fake animals in a video game. It is not satisfying. He reads about Tony Blair. Tony Blair seems to be going insane. Maybe he has always been insane. Advertising is destroying the planet. It is destroying humanity. As has always been the plan. He drinks a French Coffee and eats a Jimmy Dean Breakfast biscuit. He opens the Jimmy Dean Box. The frozen layers are wrapped in plastic. He opens the packet. The biscuit looks like plastic. The egg looks like plastic. The bacon looks like plastic. It looks like a child’s toy. He wraps it in paper. He unwraps the second one and does the same. These two plastic toys are put in the microwave. He sets the microwave for 2 minutes then changes his mind and resets it to 2 and a half minutes. Then he stands by the microwave and waits for 2 and a half minutes wondering at how many times the West will be said to be wringing it’s hands as it stands by unable to do anything as darker hued people attack one another in a vacuum with no connection to any complex global interrelations that may or may not be connected to governments of the west or corporations of the west we are the good guys we are the good guys we are the good guys. Then someone uses the phrase Hobson’s Choice when he actually means Sophie’s Choice but no one seems to notice and no one seems to care. The sun is pleasant outside and there is a slight breeze. He eats some cake flavoured m&ms and he has mint flavoured m&ms and he eats some cookies and cream hershey bar. He is getting fat and he isn’t sure why. He remembers that he has forgotten his Jimmy Dean Breakfast biscuits. He returns to the microwave. They are soft and cold. He heats them up again. He chews them. They are very hot in some parts but there are still cold pockets of wet meat. He puts ketchup on them. He does not feel any better about himself. At least he is not being sentenced to death. He wants a pair of sunglasses. He wants to be drunk. He wants to forget. He wants to remember. He dives down the rabbit hole but only his hand will fit. He is not the space trader he wished to be when he was a child. He rends and he tears at the sky but it does not respond. He plays he talks he thinks he hopes he fears. He ignores grammar and spelling and syntax. He bores. He bores deeply into his head with a drill. There is just air inside his head. It is hollow like a jar. Like an old jar found in a cave. He goes to sleep.