There was a man who lived to cut his nails. He worked and sustained himself and did things day to day so that he could live another day, so that his nails could grow another day, so that he can cut it another time.

That’s all. It was not that he was really passionate about it, or that he would do a phD if he could about nails and nailcutting culture or whatever. It’s just the thing that he lived for, and the thing that he would do. It wasn’t that he particularly liked the tingling feeling when the nail was cut off, nor that he liked the sound, nor that he liked to see the white parts being manicured off, nor that he liked to observe the ridges of his uneven nail surface, nor that he liked to wish that he had perfectly almond-shaped his nails because he didn’t, nor the sensation of having shorter nails, nor the anything. He was not feeling all these.

But he knew that when he ate dinner when he didn’t feel like eating, when he dealt with a client he didn’t feel like dealing with, when he brushed his teeth in the morning when he didn’t feel like brushing them because he didn’t feel like going to work, it was so that he would be able to cut his nails the next time, and the time after that, and the as long as possible time after that.

This was how the man who lived to cut his nails lived.