He plays "schools out for the summer" in the middle of January. That front lawn is his life, I wonder if the shreds of grass have names or misnomers or stories of their own. I wonder his stories, I wonder if he wonders if he has any stories worth storying. I see him every day playing the same music in the relatively same spot and my mind snaps instantly to consistency and the fear of repetition. And I know he sees me every morning late as always at 9:22 running, cursing, clacking in my used heels to a day filled with the same tasks, same people, same route, same talk, same talk, same talk. I wonder if he wonders my stories, and I wonder if I interject his peaceful mind with the piercing fear of repetition.