A portrait of a closet

Seventeen wrinkled tshirts hang from rigid on hangers. They have been worn between six and four hundred, thirty-seven times, depending on their age, color combination, and fashion coefficient. They wait unexpectantly. They care naught what happens tomorrow, who gets worn, who gets washed, who gets torn, who gets tossed. The only person who cares in any way about this interaction is their owner, who is currently staring at them in confusion.


For he cannot choose one. And in this tiny, transient moment, his ability to successfully complete this task matters more than whether or not he inhales another breath tomorrow.