Chapter One: Morning rituals at Monkey house

I woke up earlier than usual--it was 9 am. The sun already shined through my little room in the Monkey house. I thought what an irony, in the State of New York, on Long Island, in Brookville village, where the real-estates are among the most expensive ones in the world, for the past three months I’ve been waking up in the biggest fucking dump. Horrendous! The Monkey house, or rather a little stinking building with nine rooms about fifty two s. . .

Here is Elsewhere

The Center: A Feedback Loop

They come in the evening after the watercress soup has been drained from his plastic dish, after the anti-inflammatory medication--ingested with a bit of bread, dipped in low-fat milk--settles like a paving stone in Ulysses Harrison’s stomach. An apparition from his past arrives, hovering on the periphery, shoulders raised, a look of solemn indignation on her face. There are others, though they are disinclined to reveal themselves, con. . .

“You’re like George Clooney in Up in the Air.”  “Forget the Dos Equis Guy.  You are the real Most Interesting Man in the World.” “Mark, it’s Mom.  We miss you.  Come home soon, please.”

These are just some of the things I hear regularly because of the life I’ve made for myself.  Just a few years ago, I was a typically broke college student, dreaming about hopping on a plane.  Where to?  Anywhere, really.  I didn’t care.  I knew there had to be a way to beat the system.  Card cou. . .