His clothes lie in a pile on the floor; he ignores the smell.
His clock is set seven minutes ahead but he never arrives early.
His bed is unmade, cotton sheets and suede comforter piled at the foot.
His nightstand is just a place to gather dust and loose change.
His phone jack is empty, but the outlet next to it sprouts thick, black cables.
His life is consumed by delivery pizza and World of Warcraft.
His work is a means to an end and another forty hours a week at a computer.
His tie is a clip-on provided by the sister who still tries to talk to him.
His fridge contains ketchup, parmesan packets, and beer.
His friends don’t exist unless they are logged on.
His chair’s hard touch is the only physical embrace he encounters.