It's just another day. Mark's julienning fallen leaves between his fingernails while they wait for the suits and sobbing to finish, move on, leave him their dead.

There's a suit in front of him, and when he looks up his insides go all to bits, shredded like the mulch at his feet. He wants to say I'm sorry, I missed you, I wore out the tape of that damn football movie, but words have never worked for him, that's why he spends his days with people who no longer speak.

Instead he says, "Fuck." It's not enough. Neither is he.