His questions drip out.

One.

After.

The.

Next.

Rolling along.

Rippling together into a run-on inquiry.

Void of breaks, breaths, and gaps for answers.

He’s a three-year-old boy.

I am a 41-year-old man.

But.

I’m.

No.

Different.

Mind churning.

Chattering to the other voices inside my head.

Without any space to hear the conversation.

Never stopping to listen.

Silence.

Me.

Speak.

God.