Fiction: X Amount of Taps

If the sun were sitting on the carpeted grasses waiting for the earth to roll its bloated belly only crushed by the weight of the world and its contents, it would be unnoticed to Tris, who shut his blinds and shut his doors. If a hydrogen bomb landed outside Tris’ home that charred the landscape and scattered ashes across the whole distance, he would still be sitting in his wooden chair, tapping the table with his index and middle finger, simply tapping at varying intervals, the sound making a dull echo in the empty kitchen. Things simply did not matter to Tris now. He was indifferent to all but one thing.    

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