He lives on a mountain in a cabin with his wife. Every morning, he wakes early, kisses her forehead. He wears a blue robe—it's ripped along the bottom. He sits on his deck, drinking coffee, admiring mountains, breathing their air.

He writes in his journal. Sometimes the writing feels good, other times not. When not, he reads. Reading shows him what he's doing wrong.

His wife likes to decorate, a green and blue mural covers the east wall. She buys a variety of mementos on their travels—statues, rugs. Each has a story; the doll from South America, the mirror from Africa. He enjoys them. He enjoys her. She enjoys him. She makes lunch and they eat fresh tomato-and-avocado sandwiches.

In the afternoon, he drives down the mountain in his jeep. Brush lines the sides of a dirt path. He sings poorly with Bob Dylan.

In town, he stops at the grocery store, picks up milk and bread and more avocados. Many people know him. He says hi, politely sharing thoughts on weather. Outside, he smokes a cigarette.

He heads home to share dinner with his wife. They eat fish.

At night, he sits on his deck, eating mangoes, drinking coffee—this time decaf. He lights candles, traces the mountains' moonlit silhouettes with his finger. He writes in his journal. His writing feels good, doesn't read. He joins his wife in bed, kisses her forehead, drifts to sleep.

He wakes in a lonely bed to a screaming alarm clock. He hasn't cleaned his apartment in months. He stumbles down the hall, hungover. The grime on the floor scratches his feet. He pushes play on the record player. Listens to Bob Dylan. Washes his face. Makes his coffee. He writes for the newspaper. He hates the newspaper. He walks to work, needing mountain air.