The moves seemed monotonous.
The everyday routine imprinted into his skull.
He didn’t even have to think.
His body moved for him.
His coat neatly tucked away in the closet.
A frozen dinner rotating in the microwave.
Fifteen minutes of scanning the t.v for the latest news.
Then it was upstairs into the bedroom, where he would wash his face, account for the new wrinkles across his brow, and slip into his pajamas.
His night did not stop there, though.
After he had curled up in bed, his grey hairs resting against the very plain wooden headboard, he would open up his journal and neatly write the days date.
April 5th, 2012.
Then, as always he would gently close his journal, and dream of a day where he had something worthy of writing.
But until then, his like remained unremarkable.