‘I got busy for lack of anything else or better to do, because I had to. I still couldn’t read, so I started making plans. I picked a place to move to. I’d move to the other side of the country, from one coast to another. That would keep me busy until I’d have to make another plan. It was a question of having a plan and staying busy. I worked, and in between I started packing all my shit, gave some away, sold what I could, walked around with wads of cash in my pocket. I biked here and there, ran odd errands, called people, carried bags across town with sweat running down my head, bought train tickets, arranged viewings, took notes, made and remade lists, called more people, put things in piles, taped up boxes, stayed busy and moved the line forward every day. I flitted about on the outskirts of the hole, around my fear of the hole, my fear of nothing, which still pulled me into itself from to time. I took my pills, drank my wine and stayed busy. It was all about having a plan and keeping busy. I couldn’t think much beyond the next practical task, and that was how it had to be, I supposed, that was how people lived, how they got through life without topping themselves.’

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