Claude thinks that he is doing rather well. Well, at least, for a man quite not connected to anything or anyone, in all of the world. He has not started to accost strangers or drink during the day. Or, anyway, not often.
Claude is currently wandering. Wandering is almost an occupation. It’s nearly a job, in the same way that to nearly die is to remain alive and nearly winning isn’t winning at all.
Although there is seldom money in wandering, it does have an illustrious pedigree. Saints and musicians have long been practitioners of it. He hopes if he keeps at it long enough it will become spiritual. Admittedly there is no sign of this yet.
Claude imagines he is doing well -- until it is time to move to a new place. Until it is past time. The day before any departure he grows desperately sad. He becomes attached to even the most mediocre places. His attachment to hotel rooms waxes monstrous. While packing he trembles and feels he is performing a chore for the dead. He postpones leaving until the very last moment, until he is ashamed of himself. He wishes, above all, that he could travel encased in his room, the way a mollusc or hermit crab does.