Sam was lonely. He had forgotten how to feel. He had forgotten how to be. He had forgotten the meaning of meaning itself. He had filled his life with small chores and insignificant rewards he consumed mindlessly. Everything was on a calendar. Everything was on a list.

When he couldn’t bare the confines of the routines he had barricaded himself in, he would just go off the tracks and spend hours doing a single thing. Or a thousand, scattered things. None of them were on the List. None of them were on the Calendar.