It was his bright, dry, daily ordeal, his personal measure of tedium. It had taught him new ways of spacing out the hours of the day -almost time to go down for coffee; almost time to go out for lunch; almost time to go home- and he had come to rely on the desolate wastes of time that lay between these pleasures as an ivalid comes to rely on the certainty of recurring pain. It was a part of him.
En Revolutionary Road de Richard Yates.
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