On Monday, March 08, 2004
he woke, washed a load of laundry, ate breakfast, practiced the piano for three hours, rehearsed with a violinist for one, an hour updating web pages, read for two hours, and after night fell he dressed in layers of long underwear, ran past rows of houses in the lightly falling snow, staring in through the windows and warmth and the yellow, wounded light of empty rooms, fell in love with the unseen occupants, wondered at their tragedy and tiny effort, their brief gasp of existence on an ancient planet filled with dead generations and a history as uncertain as its future, ate pasta and vegetables for dinner, debated whether to make a phone call.