hearts and machines

clothes didn't make the man, this man made the clothes. and this man's heart didn't make a sound, the thump thu-thump of its beating got lost in the holes. he sat, unmoved by the silence in his chest and having long since concluded that he must be dead, he buried himself alive under bolts of paisleys and plaids, ginghams and polka dots - all swirling around him in a colorful shroud. every time the door would announce its ding dong hello, he would feel the familiar ping of longing to be uncovered, to be unearthed like a treasure or perhaps more like the map to the treasure. but each customer's ears were filled with each customers needs and they couldn't hear the gentle hum of his holey heart's desires. to be heard. to be felt. to be filled. so he continued to sew, each day, less like the man he once was and more like the machine he ran. the violent hum of the sewing machine called out for more fabric and less feeling. he did as he was told.