I wake up, and for the second day there's no work, no paid work, but still I get dressed and go to my desk, turn on the machine and wait for something to happen that will pay for lunch.

Outside it's a beautiful day, another spring awakening, and time itself is full of possibilities, my hours the same as Caesar's or a child's. There's work, too, to be done at home - the cleaning, sorting and so on to make things better, as well as all the work to do on myself for the same. I need to stretch, for instance, to get back into lifting, to pluck, clip, trim and file various edges and extremities, to end the day better than I started it, to be a little more worthy of love and desire.

I don't know why I'll fail in all of this, I only know I will.