If you had been watching him for the last six weeks, at a certain time each morning, for around twenty minutes, you would have seen a slightly unusual thing. He would get up. And before doing anything, before even pulling on a dressing gown and tottering to the bathroom for a morning pee, he would sit down at a plain wooden desk, pull out a thick ring bound pad of lined paper, fold his fingers around a slim fountain pen, and just write.
Twenty minutes, each morning, for the last six weeks.
This one had a boring day job. I saved myself the trouble of describing it by referring the reader to somewhere near the beginning of Kafka's Metamorphosis. But he didn't lose his job because he turned into a bug.
If you had been watching him for the last six weeks, then perhaps you would still been watching him now.
Perhaps you'd still be watching him in six weeks time...
...now he is lying in bed. It is about a quarter to three. His fridge is full of mouldy food. His stomach is full of nothing.