He’s alone with his thoughts, when he walks. All alone. They speak to him. Asking him for answers. Questions he cannot solve. Even though they’ve been asked dozens of times, he still tempts them.

How do I do the things I do?

When do I know to speak to the ones I love?

Why does the drier spin?

It just spins and spins. In that way where someone has no where to go. No one to be. To see. Like it just does what it’s told even though it gets nothing in return. It only becomes emptier. Empty.

It’s empty.

I forgot to move my clothes from the wash.