He says so

I look so small from so far. Parting the windows on Sunday. Popping out. From then on calling distant as sparrowprint soft and vocal, so called God or food, or the two of us at perfect opposites. He cannot tie things to his mind. What flails, his hands in here his hair where things left off, is not right. And people calling, small as sticks, up to him. Something, He does not hear.