He doesn't know when the morning began.
He didn't feel the need to look at the clock.
Time doesn't ask him questions anymore.
After waking up, he stared at the ceiling for a while.
He wondered—what will I do today?
No answer came.
There was nothing that could really be called breakfast.
Still, he sat up.
If he hadn't, the day would have felt even heavier.
Walking out onto the street, he realized—
he wasn't actually going anywhere.
He was just walking.
He stood in front of a shop for some time, watching.
Work was going on inside.
He needed something, but didn't have the courage to ask.
He didn't step forward.
He didn't step back either.
By midday, the sun was high,
but no light reached inside him.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and counted again—
the familiar emptiness.
Toward evening, a thought suddenly came to him:
if someone asked today—how was your day?
what would he say?
Nothing happened—
those words were the hardest for him to speak.
The day ended.
Without any decisions.
But he knew—
these directionless days
were the truest chapters of his life.