After drafting it with Frootloops on my desk, I have placed these notes on this sheet music, composing a melody only for you. I carefully arranged them so that you will easily catch the tune and somehow tickle your taste in music.
Will you finally hum along with my affections?
The balding Mr. Harris snored on his rocking chair.
His spectacles, round and thick, rested on what’s left of his hair sprinkled with chalk dust. Blind as faith, he had grown highly dependent on them (he hung them on his neck on most days so as not to misplace them). His mustache was still, his forehead creased in distress and his fake teeth were in danger of falling.
A tall glass vase stood at Mr. Harris’ side desk. Withered petals were scattered at its foot while the water inside it began to breed mosquitoes. Flies swarmed his living room and kissed the portrait of his younger self - bold and proud in his Marines uniform.
At 81, Mr. Harris couldn’t reach for the remote control without bursting a sweat. He sat on his rocking chair, shackled with old age, with his pants soaked in his urine and caked with his own feces.
Mr. Harris lived alone. More alone than anyone.
Everyone knew, of course. But nobody seemed to notice that the balding Mr. Harris’ snore was stealthily hushing, that flies were already kissing his exhausted face.
