These shoes. These shoes. These dead man’s shoes. My how they danced with a man near his end. A man with no money for expensive shoes. He needed only inserts to make these soles groove. 3 years 10 days, 3 years 4 minutes… a projection for when these shoes shuffled no more.

A sadness falls over. A dead man with no relative to collect his things, no line to acknowledge a passing of a being. To the lost they go… until they have been found. A remnant of a tempo long never heard and is never forgotten, for he once was. His labor built part of this world. This world of tapping shoes.

Tap, tap, tap …