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.