He sat for hours on end, staring wide eyed into the television set as its images reflectd back upon the wrinkles engraved into his face. His own arms draped across the worn ones of a chair that was quite worn itself. A newspaper folded against the folds rested upon his lap. The paper was dated to last fall. The telephone would ring from where it was mounted to the kitchen wall, only to be answered by the tape of the machine. Outside, the mailbox was overflowing with magazines from stores he didn't know existed, bills he had no intention to pay, and birthday cards from people he had long forgotten about. The papers spewed out onto the lawn to be lost in the forrest it had come to resemble. It was growing high enough to get lost in, a black hole. Winter and Spring's newspapers were burried under the dry dead grass. Some issues had found their way under a car whose windows were crusted over with a thick layer of pollen, and whose paint was dulled by salt from the winter's snow. Inside everything, much like the car, was coated with a thin layer of dust, the clocks had long run out of batteries. Ticking ceased. But still, he sat as the images from the televesion reflected back upon his face. Almost as if he thought that if he watched it long enough, the weather would change.
He sat waiting.
Waiting for something to change.