So it was that early on Tuesday the man in the black coat stared blankly at the wall and listened to the clock in the town strike seven and looked at the empty, very white, page in front of him and concluded that he had nothing to say and that he had not had anything to say for a very long time. And so it was that this man felt very uncomfortable at his usual desk and very uncomfortable in his usual clothes and felt very uncomfortable in his usual house. I am very uncomfortable, said the man. And so it was, on that day, this man, quite young and of quite tremendous potential, set forth into the world a little bit gloomier and, still, a little bit happier all the same. Why there is not anything at all that I need to do anymore, said the man. And there wasn’t anything in the world, not yet, that he knew by name. All the things in the world looked as if they had just come out from the earth and from the trees and from under the rocks. All the things, indeed, looked as if they too were looking upon a strange world and such a strange day. Why, yes, the man in the black coat declared, it is as though the squirrels are even very much uncomfortable in their usual clothes and in their usual homes. It must be a most usual day.

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