Summer is over. Fall hasn't yet kicked in. I am out of ideas. I'm not a pessimist, I tell myself. Most days. My colleague—no, my friend—is leaving. Two weeks, he says. I want to be happy for him.

I find myself awake at ungodly hours, watching "Industry" and wondering if the people who are always thrilled to share the news of their paper acceptances on Twitter watch TV. Do they, too, forget their Finasteride some mornings, then spend the day touching their hairline?

I hear Sally Rooney has a new book. Yesterday I stood in line at Cafe Panna, only to be told they'd run out of Lavender Blueberry Stracciatella. It felt like a metaphor for something, but I couldn't say what.

Sometimes I think about my colleagues, their names in lights, and wonder if there's a support group for men like me. Mediocre, mid-thirties, muddling through.

They say AI might save us all. From what, I'm not sure. Certainly not from ourselves.