His hands moved around him fluidly. They floated along but only going as far as his natural span would take them. His fingers occasionally touched and moved the familiar but unnoticeable objects that surrounded him.
He looks down at his feet and takes note of a scuff on the upper right corner of his left shoe.
The feet begin to move, bringing the legs, torso and arms along. Each foot takes its proper turn in choosing a direction.
The hands join the feet in a symphony of work.
The man composes well but his song never ceases and his continuous melody never creates a beginning, middle or end. It can be easily followed and easily played but it relentlessly gives no time for reflection. Figuring out how or why he is making such horribly, familiar music was swallowed up somewhere along the way.
Curious, daydreaming fingers and toes had been quickly eaten and long forgotten.