Monday evening. There’s a raging storm outside, spitting its deluge of insolence against his windows.
On his table, lit by a single jaundiced bulb spluttering its last breath, there’s a plastic cup of noodles. The noodles are cold, damp, lonely and chronically depressed. He slurps them up, like bales of hay impaled on the tips of his pesticided chopsticks. They are cold, damp, lonely and chronically depressed in his digestive system.
There are newspapers and news magazines strewn around the place. Dates unknown and contents abandoned.
He looks into the humidity-stained mirror. There he is. Gaunt and white as his lifeless grandfather, dead since three years ago.
A fluorescent realization dawned upon him like the wind howling on the facade of his flat – he was entirely and eternally incapable of love.