He sits on the chair in the living room. It is one of those nineteenth-century chairs, leather that squeaks when something moves across it, and is in impeccable condition. His eyes are open and he is staring at the test pattern on the screen before him, but the television is mute. He does not want to listen to that anyway.

A thick extension jack runs between the five-hundred-dollar headphones and the old radio. It is tuned to nothing in particular, or at least nothing that conventional ears would regard as good programming. The volume is exceedingly high, almost maxed out, as he stares into nothingness.

This is his only solace, the coveted eye of the tempestuous maelstrom that is his life. He struggles through his quotidian agenda at work, at the store, at the laundromat, at the gas station, while just barely managing to maintain his sanity and not break apart at the seams, but he is at home now. Now he does what he likes. It is also what he must.

The static keeps the voices at bay.