The ball goes from my hand to the floor to the wall back to my hand. And it starts again. It’s nice.

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I don’t know how I got the ball. I don’t know where I got the ball from. I don’t know when I got the ball. I don’t know how long I have been playing catch. But I like it. Its pleasant.

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It’s routine. It’s rhythmic. From my hand to the floor to the wall back to my hand. You can focus on that. Get lost in that.

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There’s a world outside. I wouldn’t know that. I just play catch. I can’t remember the last time I went outside. Once the ball took an odd bounce and cracked the window. I filled it in.

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I have not seen anyone for a while. I stopped going out. People stopped coming around. That’s fine. More time to play catch.

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I should eat something. But then its hard to play catch. I don’t want to do anything else but play catch. Things get in the way of catch. They should not.

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I can hear things outside. Things that are not the sound of a ball bouncing off surfaces. I block them out as best possible.

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A wall fell. Must have been during the night. One of the few times I am not playing catch. There’s less of the city then I remember. There’s more fire than I remember. Something massive lumbers in the distance, making loud noises, breathing fire. Distractions aren’t needed. And some walls still stand.

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The ball goes from my hand to the floor to the wall back to my hand. And it starts again. It’s nice.

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Might revise this later.