7 minutes

Max put both of his hands on the railing of the balcony, and straightened his shoulders. As usual, he was amazed at how unnatural it started to feel, but he instantly felt the dull pain in his left shoulder decrease. His bare feet quickly started to get cold, but he never found the need to put on his shoes for the short intermezzo’s he spend here.

Burned by the last drag of his cigarette, he realized he was smoking it too fast, again, and started to pay attention to his breathing. 3 breaths, one inhale, one slow exhale. Use the left hand to spare the other side.

Max was pleased about himself. He spend the whole day thinking cleanly, not too many relapses. He was less productive than he wanted, but more than expected. He hadn’t quite managed to reach the level he had reached a couple of years ago at his last job,and while he couldn’t pin down the exact reason, he was pretty sure he knew most of the contributing factors. Lack of social control. Infinite time. But then again he also was more productive than he had been there a few months later.

Max caught himself smoking right-handed again, and switched.

But then again, what does it mean to be productive. Although Max was convinced he was spending his time as well as he could, he still spend a lot of time doubting his ultimate goals. But then, it was easier to convince himself about the urgency of his current project, than the urgency of figure out his goals. He had accepted it was a “more than a lifetime” thing long ago, and he hadn’t seen any evidence to the contrary yet. Best not too go in circles right now anyway. It’s scheduled for summer.

He deposited the last of his cigarette in the tray, wondering why the collection of butts reminded him of empty batteries.

The click of the water boiler reminded Max of … what? He nearly broke his neck tripping over his shoes as he entered the kitchen.