I sit here in this apartment with the sirens screaming down on 5th Avenue and I realize I am seventy-six years old and I cannot decide if I should wash the dishes or answer an email without asking a girl in the Philippines named Laila to put it on a list for me, it is a total collapse of my executive function, a complete and total collapse. I’ve spent fifty years as a consultant in this city, a fixer, a man who people called when things were falling apart but now the internal architecture is just… dusty, it’s just dusty and crumbling and I pay Laila three hundred dollars a month just to tell me to get out of bed at 8:00 AM every single morning, every single morning. I look at the blinking cursor and I feel this weight, this immense density of choice, and I realize I have become a passenger in my own skin, just a passenger watching the world go by through a screen.