His shirt didn't fit.
He turned this way and that, looking at himself in the mirror. The shirt he wore yesterday was too small for him now. He couldn't figure out why. It definitely hadn't been washed. He wore shirts until people complained out loud about the smell.
His shirt didn't fit.
It was his favourite shirt- the Hawaiian shirt with palm trees on it. He lived in that shirt. He felt comfortable in that shirt. That shirt was as much a part of him as his own skin.
His shirt didn't fit.
He began to panic. What was he going to do? He couldn't go outside naked. He needed his shirt. He was nothing without his shirt.
His shirt didn't fit.
His shirt didn't fit- it was too tight. He was suffocating.
He woke up. He gasped at the air, pulling it towards him. It filled his lungs. He relaxed.
He looked across the room. His shirt was draped over the back of the chair where he'd thrown it.
O shirt. Who art thou?