Today there is an old man, who is to shave once every three days. Wrinkled pale skin mottled with dark brown and hair a stark white. He owns 1 walking stick with knife rope-attached, spear-like, 1 mixed bag of rice and dried meat, 1 pair of pants, and 1 small hut. This is all that can be threatened to be taken away.
For water, there is a small stream nearby his weak stomach has grown accustomed to.
He lives simply but doesn’t always want to.
He is to clean diligently, but today he lays in the hut’s middle while it falls into disorder around him.
He’s there now with dark eyes open and staring straight, white beard fuzzier than a 3-day, back of the skull in hard pain from the wood floor, hands and legs splayed childishly, walking stick half-clutched in the right hand.
He’s not swept. And he can feel particles between forearm and floor.
He’s not made rice yet for dinner, nor picked vegetables from the garden (a wild thicket of edibles accumulated from years of scattered seeds).
And he feels now he’s uncomfortable.
His eyes close softly and he releases a breath he’d been holding through pursed lips.
There’s just nothing to do. Nothing to do at all.