The clocks stop. For breakfast I write a short story in one sitting. For lunch I have raspberry pancakes, write the first line of something new, fold it into seven sections, and put it away for tomorrow. After lunch I nap—it doesn’t matter how long, the clocks have stopped. (E is there; he’s finished his script.) Then I write the very last chapter of a new book.
Or, to put it simpler: the clocks stop. The perfect day will be the day the clock stops.