He wakes up. Aching muscles and bones. He showers. He walks. An old lady walking very slowly up a very long elevator. She is wearing her Sunday hat. Two lovers talking quietly. Their speech barely breath. Smiling. A pack of Marlboro reds on the bench. Empty – he checks. He remembers the happiness of a good cigarette.Ladies in pink ready to walk for breast cancer. His mother dead on a slab skin metallic and cold from cancer. She never smoked. No dissipation dispossession dispersion no skate boarding no roller skating. Does anyone still rollerskate? No loitering no littering no leering no fun. James MacAvoy nearly gets angry when he is called English by Jimmy Fallon. Then he tells an amusing story about actor shenanigans which he tells as he laughs and flowers up the language but the narrative of the story seems to be three men cornering a woman and shooting her with bb guns. Jimmy is awkward. James realizes his story sounds terrible. The audience laughs because they are delirious from lack of sustenance. It is another triumphant Late Night. The Scottish sense of humor is a strange sense of humor. As inexplicable as the still burning enmity against the English. Lines snake out of the embassies of the conquerors British German French and others. Happy white tourists with bags of booty. Drinks and caveman politics. Outcasts and plutocrats. Dirty unwashed sky. London tops the list of billionaires in the world. The Trussel Trust Foodbank has seen an increase of 163% of local people. The rich have won they have won they have won their sucking tubes vacuuming up all the meaty wealth wherever they find it. All that is left is the ragged wasteland of outdoor malls and glassy eyed denizens of hopelessness. He watches Inside Job. He watches Dirty War. He reads The Divide. It is not a recipe to create a happiness cake. He goes to sleep.