No, he wasn’t ungrateful or unhappy, it wasn’t that. His life was . . . okay. But nothing more. His life simply happened, from one day to the next, without any particular highs or lows. It . . . functioned. He functioned. Even though, if he were honest, there was nothing important to function for. He had arranged his life to be as free as possible. Free of responsibility, perhaps, but also free of euphoria. Depressing. Yes, he had to admit the thought was rather depressing.
