“The sky is falling.
That is all.”
He spoke like a man whose existence could only be proved by the volume of his voice. It mattered little if he had anything worthwhile to say. And, in fact, he had very little worthwhile to say.
But the urgency remained.
A primal urgency.
An urgency propelled by some kind of inner, unspoken fear. It caused him to speak often. It compelled him to speak endlessly. Meaning didn’t matter. Meaning wasn’t even required. Only the sound of his own voice was. That sound, that necessity caused him to speak again and again…like not just any man, but like a desperate man. A desperate man whose existence hung by the overly-stretched thread and the spindly webby wisp of his own particular tone and his own particular volume created by his particular voice.
To prove to the universe that he exists.