A man wakes up under the sun, though nothing calls his name.

A man’s room is small. A man sits at the edge of the bed and looks at himself. A man’s hands have built nothing, or maybe they have built something invisible. A man doesn’t know which is worse.

A man has many names, each worn and then discarded when it doesn’t fit. A man wonders if there is a name that stays.

The morning asks the age-old question: What will you be?

A man has no answer.

So a man walks.

The streets are filled with those who move with purpose. The only weight they carry is the weight of decisions they’ve already made. A man walks with them, invisible. A man likes to think this is freedom, but a man is lost.

The morning question follows him quietly, it waits.

The question changes. not what a man will be, but what a man will reach for.

A man stands.

A man could choose a direction. A man could choose a name. A man could choose to become something that fits.

A man does not.

A man is not ready.