There once was an old man who was lonely. He had a hole where his heart used to be. Every day, he would wake up in his single sheeted bed, get dressed and stand in front of the mirror. He would stand up straight. Pull a tie over his head, comb his hair. He would breakfast alone. He would boil an egg for two and a half minutes, toast his bread for three minutes, and put the kettle on to boil for four. The table he used was built for a family, but there was only him now. He would shuffle back from the kitchen in his frayed robe and his scuffed slippers. Sit down at the head of the table. Picking up a silver, slightly tarnished knife he would sweep it through the butter. The tea was always cold when he was finished, but what did it matter? Nothing mattered to this old man who was graying at the edges.
Sam Weber on Hi-fructose