It's taken some adjustment, but so far my life post-Proust has been going fairly well. I just plow my field, plant whatever vegetable I'm going to grow that day, and harvest it when it's ready. Sure, there's cows to milk and eggs to collect, but that only takes a few minutes. The best thing is that the evenings are all mine! Of course, a person who reads Proust in 290 days is not going to be satisfied by drinking beer and watching hockey every night. That person is going to have to do some pondering, which is what I do. Fortunately, being a small-time farmer provides one with endless material for thought. Like how, if the Toronto Maple Leafs were instead called the Toronto Maple Leaves, then the mind of an aerial viewer seeing a "GO LEAVES!" sign made from hay bales would automatically assign the letter "A" rather than the letter "R" to the ambiguous third character because "leaves" is a familiar word. I usually start the evening pondering that, but, like always, my light and frivolous pondering soon turns to a melancholy brooding that lasts the night. I think of the work it took to make the sign and how unfortunate it is that I can't see it from the air. Most of all, I agonize over the fact that, even though I've been a Leaf's fan long enough that "LEAFS" is a real world to me, I still (in my mind's eye because I've never actually seen my sign) see "GO LERFS!" about half the time. My sleepless agonizing turns to genuine suffering when I realize that the full creative force of my mind cannot produce a single fucking idea how to fix it. About that time, the goddamned rooster crows and my insomniac ass is back in the field. But that is my life, post-Proust!