With every awkward strum, despite his approaching demise, Harold felt a little more at peace. Harold no longer ate alone. He no longer counted brushstrokes. He no longer worried about the time it took to put on his tie. He no longer counted his steps to the bus stop. Instead, Harold did that which had terrified him before. That which had eluded him from Monday to Friday for so many years. That which the unrelenting lyrics of those numerous punk rock songs told him to do. Harold Crick lived his life.

Stranger than Fiction (2006), Marc Foster.