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It doesn't matter whether you like it or nota job's a job. And by the time everything was over, I was overwhelmed by a stillness deeper than anything I'd known. I'd venture into the city with the first gray of dawn and walk the deserted streets, and when the streets started to fill with people, I holed up back indoors to sleep. I had no idea what was going on in the world, who'd become famous, who'd died, nothing. I could feel it in my skin, even sitting alone in my apartment. It was like a silent breath of air, breezing past me. After a while some of the anguish went away, some surfaced only later. Once on my feet, I tried not to think about where I was heading. Never could understand what she saw in himbut none of my business, eh? She was sure I'd be fine whatever it was I chose to do. Due to some unavoidable circumstances, I had quit an office that a friend and I were running, and for half a year I did almost nothing. The previous autumn all sorts of things had happened in my life. Toward evening, I'd rise, fix something to eat, feed the cat. It wasn't that I stubbornly resisted information, I simply had no desire to know anything. Sitting on the floor, I'd replay the past in my head. And yet my half year indoors was not spent in convalescence. That was another question entirely, to be thought out at a later date. She reserved her worries for the people I'd get involved happening. You'd want to put him in a glass case and cart him to your science class: Almost anyone who saw the guy would, to a greater or lesser degree, feel their spirits dampen. To return to the Dolphin Hotel is to give up all I'd quietly set aside during this time.

When I still had my office, I did my share of editing and writing, and I'd gotten to know a few professionals in the field. Speaking conservatively, I'd say half the material I wrote was meaningless, of no conceivable use to anyone. But I did the work, mechanically, without thinking. Waste is the name of the game, its greatest virtue. But really, the work wasn't much of an improvement over PR newsletters.

A photographer and I were to visit a few restaurants. Then she mentioned she was getting marriedto someone I didn't know, and probably never would.

I'd write the story up, he'd supply the photos, for a total of five pages. And the same can be said for collecting garbage and shoveling snow. I met a strange man, found myself caught up in some extraordinary developments. I never went out during the day, except to make the absolute minimum purchases necessary to survive. I hardly even drank; I wasn't in a drinking frame of mind. Which meant she'd split up with that friend of mine she'd gone off with when we divorced. The guy wasn't so great a jazz guitarist and he wasn't so great a person either.

Evolutionary vector eliminated, orphaned life-form left cowering behind the curtain of history, in The Land That Time Forgot. That was the first mistake, and everything got worse from there.

Occa-What it reminded me of was a biological dead end. A freak accident of nature that stranded some organism up the wrong path without a way back. The hotel should never have been built where it was.

Birds were singing the whole time I was burying him. I could only manage a third of a sandwich, but I put down two cups of coffee. I was willing to do anything, I met my deadlines, I never complained, I wrote legibly. I sometimes wonder if this might not prove to be the bane of my life.

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