Don couldn't find his keys any more. His sense of unease seemed to be getting worse every day. He tried to put his finger on the problem, the death of his father, his absence from work, his inability to assemble the motorcycle with its baffling parts, gears, tools, guidebooks, cables and things which he could not identify as parts of this motorcycle or that.
His time was spent between reading the books on motorcycle travels and attempting to maintain some sense of order. He had made piles of different types of items found around the apartment other than those in the machine room.
Seventy Percent showed up for a couple of hours sporadically, it may have been every day or there may have been large gaps in the time as Don could no longer distinguish one day from the other or even night from day except the days were bright and hurt his eyes and the nights black and forbidding. He had not left the house in some time. Seventy Percent brought food, but Don was not even sure whether he had eaten or not.
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