If I cleaned out my room and emptied my calendar, who would notice?
“Eating well again, I see?”
But I am still hungry. It grows inside of me like an apple seed through the throat.
I fiddled with the charging cord, trying to see if I could feel the electricity coursing through the thread.
I grunted, carrying the wooden crates as I moved them across the yard. Another day, another accomplishment.
Men walk through the street, gray, uniform. No one sees the details which causes them to miss what is being sung to them. They dance with one another, unconscious.
“It’s the simple acts, really.” A pill a day, a walk a day, a talk a day.
Days fade into weeks, weeks fade into months.
Months speak truths about man, showing who he really is. The moon and the sun lie, the truth is known to be held by the theoretical.
Men walk in unison. March, April, May, June, July.
It is not to be seen, but it is a seventh sense. He eats at his intestines, wondering when the hunger will end.
The intestines move against each other in wet squelching sobs, like cogs in a machine trying to power a world.
He does not speak of it, yet it is heard.
Maybe they will notice, or maybe they will not. Best not keep him waiting, don’t dawdle. Come along now, Child.