Sorry. Been working a lot. Days of the week have lost their traditional names and become BakeryDay, RestaurantDay, BakerestaurantDay, or WashWorkClothesDay. The weekend is a long day that starts on Friday morning and ends Monday afternoon, with a bit of sleep and more laundry sprinkled throughout.

I'm not enjoying it per se, but I'm glad I'm doing it. I'm growing closer to my independence. I am rebuilding my work ethic like a Frankenstein's monster, sewn together from dead lazy sleeping old parts of me to be shocked into life by the threat of financial ruin and the desire to understand what I am.

Calling upon friends has slowed from an already reclusive trickle to a water-torture drip. These days I spend time with people who don't know I exist and some which aren't any more lively themselves: Tolstoy, Raymond Chandler, Phillip Pullman, The Beatles, Frank Miller.

I travel the world and meet new people through my books, but not in the literal way that Gumby did. No, I mean in a metaphorical sense.

It reminds me of my youth.

I still ponder love, but not as often. It seems a distant thing and grand romantic thoughts do not stick well to a brow beaded with sweat and bread crumbs.

Akin to Kafka's hunger artist, I am learning that being alone is easy, so easy. Co-workers ask me why I'm always in such a good mood. I think I know. When I'm at work, I'm with people. All kinds of people, and they all come to me. Only for a short time, but there are lifetimes nestled in those moments. It's not enough to keep me strong, but I won't starve. I don't think I will.

I'm a voluntary pauper at the moment. I pay my bills and dump the rest into paying back my four credit cards. The two cards with the highest interest met their demise at my hands. They are almost paid off. The other two are coming along nicely.

A little under a hundred bucks in my main bank account and the rest hidden in savings fools me into frugality.

Respective to the average American, I don't have very much debt. Around 2000 smackers or so. If this nose stays pressed to the grindstone for a couple more months, even that will be gone.

I am afraid of that day.

Even now, when I make well above my minimum payments and throw some more money towards the next payment, I feel unsettled. A bill is a concrete motivation, both a carrot and a stick. When it's not dangling in front of me or striking behind me, the path blurs. Like some farmer who has been long bent over a plow and suddenly looks up to find himself far from his field in an alien land.

What next?

How can I know which way is up without something trying to push me down? Without that weight, I might just float off, and up, and away into the frozen ink of space.

I guess we'll see.