Darkened slippers of rough spun cotton cling snugly to the man's feet. His person rests comfortably in the matted corduroy arm chair in the corner of his loft apartment. He takes a deep breath, then another. On the third his chest begins to rise, but stops as a sharp pain in his ribs manages to cause another of his unfortunate coughing fits. Slipping his feet from their respective domiciles -- first left, then right -- his grizzled toes find respite from the cold in the browning shag rug on the floor. With chipped toenails and cracked heels, his unkempt feet speak in part about his age, but announce unendingly about his self care.
Noticing the state of his feet -- or the ruts in the carpet where they lie, or both -- he stands up from his chair. This ends an uncharacteristically short time for him to be seated. His mind flickers and stutters as he begins ruminating about prior experiences, and his ill-remembered past self. He begins to pace -- slowly and methodically -- around his coffee table. His thoughts come quickly and leave with no warning, each spurring the next in some shape or form.
This is a rather common occurrence on lonely and lazy days. The thoughts always come into his mind as though brought on by some external source -- this is to say that it does not feel the same as when you recall a memory, or solve a puzzle. For him, it tends to feel more akin to the way a thought pops into your head when you've already known something for a long while. It feels like you don't have to do any of the mental work, and the answer is there -- but these are memories, and not answers to simple logical queries.