(Man is eating breakfast in a restaurant)

How can I describe this? I can describe it as what it is not. It is not here, it is not there. It is not where it is supposed to be.

(sips orange juice)

It's first thing in the morning, when the sun is shining. I get up, and the only motivation I have is right there under the blankets with me. I'm tired of rubbing one out every morning--and always to the same fantasy! No, I can't tell you what that is. But it's a matter of drive. I grow tired, but I am most tired when I wake up. I don't know where I am, and who I am with. I feel a desperation for meaning, but my room offers none. So I rush.

(eyes grow wide)

I turn on some music, some Bach perhaps, I make my bed, I look at a list of things to do I've written the night before, I take a shower, and then I grab my things and run out the door, minding the lock, and rush to a restaurant where I can sit and enjoy the company of strangers. I enjoy a book, the food, and the clamor of many other morning people.

(pulls out newspaper and acts as if reading)