A man at home alone. He moves around the space. What does he have left? He watches the pornography he has accumulated over the years, maybe even expands his collection with something new. He makes a cup of coffee. He goes out to smoke a cigarette. Time hovering like a falcon waiting for a prey, so he drags on, barely but he does. He has a roll of toilet paper, a weekend newspaper, and maybe a book. It doesn’t matter if there is life out there, he is inside here, and the prey hasn’t arisen yet. He sits and waits, hears a noise from the outside, maybe something has occurred.