The threadbare man stares into the clouds, the sun-cast texture of their serenity unnoticed. He looks into their depths, beyond their shadows and highlights into the impenetrable whiteness within. He stands there, the wind whipping past him, wrapping his solitude around him so tightly that he almost cannot breathe. He stands, the exactitude of his life a threadbare cloak, a tattered shell brittle and lonely, clasping the emptiness of his self.
He stirs not at all, a statue of forgotten dreams, of hopes drowned in the dust of long-shed tears. He stands and stares and barely breathes, barely feels, barely is. He stands, bent and weighed down by the nothingness of his life, broken and crushed and ground to distrust.
The threadbare man stands. He stares and wonders at that he has the strength to do this little thing, and yet cannot take a step, a single step into tomorrow, out from the faded chains of a past and a present into something more and something brighter; and he wonders why a single threadbare tear does not roll down his threadbare cheek, containing the last essence of his threadbare life, away into oblivion and clouds and the inklings of what once might have been and what once was.