2:30 p.m.
She stood on a small ladder slavishly painting on the gigantic canvas in her garage as if this one obsessive idea could finally hold the elusive truth once and for all on why she , her 6 billion contemporaries , and all previous generations had bodies so easily worn away and existed so briefly within this recycling of life and as to why they rotated about the sun like hostages in a driverless bus that incessantly moved around the city square without any purpose . As she stared at her creation she ruminated that nature was so foolishly wasteful in formulating these tenuous beings who spent a fourth or more of their lives trying to acquire sufficient knowledge so that they could begin to think for themselves , and thereafter most of their energies in copulatory obsessions so that they could replicate new know-nothings . And yet if we were just cells in this mad , growing universe , she thought , none of it mattered anyway . But at 2:30 p.m. she took her usual respite from her creative labors to meet the man with the unmemorable name at one of the less bourgeois coffee shops , not within the Starbuck franchise . She knew that in part she came here regularly not so much because she wanted to understand a Russian man 's mentality or friendship , but to summersault from the diving board of another 's ideas . For it was by this that she could free herself from lonely stagnation and the frustration of attempting to find genius from within . This sense of being alive was only possible when two or more were present -LRB- action being the body of all things -RRB- and so she came here to spring into life that was only in consort with another .