I don't understand how it must feel to have never questioned your own existence.

I stand at the sink, hot water scalding my skin as I scrub dried food from plates and forks.

I don't understand how it must feel to have never asked yourself the question, to have weighed the good and the waste in each hand.

The yard outside the window is frozen, painted in white, not a single breeze today. Maybe it'll finally melt the ice on the driveway.

Does everyone have moments of living that don't feel alive?

I dry the dishes.