Nothing changed from day to day, not one thing. I woke up at seven, made toast and coffee, headed out to work, ate dinner out, had one or two drinks, went home, read in bed for an hour, turned off the lights, and slept. Saturdays and Sundays, instead of work, I was out killing time from morning on, making the rounds of movie theaters, Then I had dinner and a couple of drinks, read, and went to sleep, alone. So it went: I passed through the month the way people X out days on a calendar, one after the other. (Haruki Murakami. A Wild Sheep Chase. Penguin, 1991).
So, how was your month? Write a poem about how you spent April. Or about a different month you spent mechanically, just getting by, as Murakami describes in this excerpt.
Photo by Lis Ferla. Copyright commons, some rights reserved.
