How to count directionally, by Art.

Art was informed that he needed money. He received a Government issued letter that read:

Dear Art,

You need money. You have five hundred words to get some.

Warm Regards,

The Government

Art knew he was fucked. He was a painter of little talent. But it's all he really knew how to do. He lived in a square apartment, somewhere east of the centre of town, which is irrelevant to his plight, but important if only for geological reference. He once studied urban planning.
Art is easily distracted. His numerous half done paintings showcase this. Most of them are attempts at large office buildings, small inner-city parks, and tragic car accidents at intersections. He conceives his ideas from his balcony on the fourth floor. But the Macdonald's at the corner of Vancouver and Quadra partially blocks the west side of one of the streets, thus impeding some of the potential gore of tragic car accidents at intersections.
But what about money? Art had never contemplated money. He'd never needed it. As he studied this he wondered how he got by every day. Where did his food come from? Why was there always toilet paper in the bathroom? How did he have a place to live?
Art noticed the aging geranium on the fifth row of the west facing shelving unit. He should water it. Art paced about the apartment for an hour. He sat randomly in a chair. He moved some magazines from the coffee table to the banister between the kitchen and living room. He showered. And then he made bread.
Money. There it was again! Art couldn't figure out why he kept thinking about it. Had his mother called? Would money make him sleep easier at night? “What is money”, he said to the most eastern wall of his apartment.
Art heard his own voice. It disturbed him. So he turned on the radio located to the north of the television. He put on a talk show. Art decided that listening to talk-radio and talking to oneself at the same time was much like a conversation. This soothed the sudden anxiety he got when he was thinking about...?
He left the building and went for a walk. About three blocks in, to the exact southeast of the MacDonald's, he found twenty dollars near a bus stop. He picked it up, examined its texture, and licked it. The taste was sour and a bit dirty. He laughed as he thought of the taste as the “sweat of the earth.” Art put the cash in his pocket. After completing the walk he went home.
Art decided he should paint. He'd been avoiding it all day. He sat down at his easel and arranged his paints. And then picked a medium width brush and the colour green. He removed a small paper-like document from his pocket, tacked it to the wall with a sewing needle, and painted the most glorious painting of the number six.