He chews the bread and cheese for a moment both to contemplate his thoughts and taste the food, but clenches in pain as it slides down his raw and very sensitive oesophagus. A harsh reminder of his existence. It felt rough, almost sharp like glass so he takes a drink of water to help it on its way. He returns to the book and continues to the next page.
He could feel his mind was calming down though. Occupying it with something deeper than the usual chaotic concerns about random crap was a better use of energy it seems. Putting it to work instead of letting it ramble around in nothingness.
He reads on:
In that sense does the form of expression matter?
If art is simply a statement in