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.