"What would you do if you had a million books to read, but only a moment to read them? Or, how about if you had a thousand thoughts to share, but no one to listen? Or, if you were the last person on the planet, and you needed someone to hug you and tell you it would be all right?"
The voice sighed. "Or, what if you had a worlds worth of stories to tell, but no one to tell them too?"
His feet dangled over rusted railings, which overlooked a river that once divided a great city. Or maybe it was just a city. But, either way it was once a place with people. And the sound of car horns, and footsteps, loud music and the playful youth had long since faded from the dynamic of its maze streets of steel, concrete and glass.
He pulled his feet back, tucked them beneath his bottom and raised himself up - So that he stood on the edge. He casually kicked a small stone off the bridge, turned and walked away.
The red sun shone dimly in his eyes. He squinted momentarily, before pulling his baseball cap down over and shadowing his eyes. "What if I wanted to just share a sunset with someone? Just once." He heaved anxiously.
The sound of his breathing sung in the air, as if the world was just pleased by the sound of life. Cars were permanent features to the landscape. Monuments to the age of easy travel, reminders of the age of man.
He put one foot in front of the other, each step kicking up long settled dust.
By the time he reached his door, above it a sign had the word "Home" scrawled across it, the sun had set. Darkness swam through the streets, but the sound of the world remained as silent as when the light had looked down upon it.
He pushed the door open, lock free. It swung on its hinges with a welcoming squeal. The entrance panned out into a long corridor, with four doors.
He raised his hand into a small box above the entrance, pulled down a half used candle and matches. Lit the candle and looked into the flames a moment.
"Time to eat." The voice declared. He gently nudged the door behind him, and it swung shut without resistance.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, raised one foot and pulled the shoe off with his hand, before repeating for the other. His socks, stained with blotches of red and brown, remained on.
He passed into the kitchen, stalked towards the pile of canned foods in the corner and pried one open. He discarded the lid, which read a use-by date almost seventy years past, and dug his fingers down into the mush.
His eyes showed his distaste for the food, but the visibility of the bones on his hands said he needed any food he could get.
He sat down at the kitchen table, where he had a worn newspaper spread across the old oak wood. His eyes scanned the headline. "Police Valentines card contained "G-string and bullet."
"Did you hear that, scandalous news today." He spoke aloud. Swiftly stood up, and sat down again on the opposite side of the table.
"Oh I did. I couldn't believe it when I heard it." He rose again, and swapped seats.
"I'm not sure who this Police Valentines is, but I doubt he deserved such rudeness to be delivered to him." He pondered a moment, before hightailing to the other seat.
"Imagine, opening your mail to find you were delivered a "card" - What is wrong with people these days?" He scoffed.
And laughed. "Oh you are losing it." He laughed to himself, again.
His eyes wandered over to the empty seat. Past the candle. Past the newspaper. Past the empty can of mush.
A tear rolled down his cheek. "I wonder what its like to talk to someone."