An existentialist sat quietly outlooking the garden, offset by the noise of a steady heartbeat and the warmth of his skin. He was dismayed by the smell of dirt writhing with worms and pumpkin seeds below his porch, so he kept distance from the steps for fear of collapsing; letting them rot back into the soil. He began resting his eyes against the midmorning breeze, for his nights were spent awake, listening to lonely calls, feeling their whispers reverberate in his fingertips, unable to satisfy them with reason so never sleeping out of fear of submission. Only now under the prying sunlight does he understands the need for light at both ends of the tunnel. Letting the rock of the chair run lose momentum, his thoughts run through a stream of finite silence.