The way the night looked, it looked like a massive hole was drilled into the sky. And the sun was gone. And the moon was covered. No stars. He looked up into the darkness and saw nothing. And nothing was fine. That was all he ever wanted. To see nothing. He used to close his eyes to see nothing, but that night, he didn’t have to.

It was on that night when he decided to give it all away. All of his possessions. His house, his car, his TV, everything. He stared into the ocean of blackness and realized that this was what he wanted.

“I want nothing.”

The next day, he put up his house for sale including all that was inside. He put up his car for sale. He quit his job.

“What are you going to do?” his friend asked, a childhood friend and now former colleague.

“Nothing.”

Once all that he had owned was sold, he lived on the streets as a homeless man. He had a homeless friend and they talked about nothing, and that was all he ever wanted.

One day his friend and former colleague—a friend since childhood—came up to him and gave him some money.

“I miss you,” his friend said. “Come back.”

He didn’t respond, and after a minute or so, his friend walked away. He watched him walk and thought about nothing.

His homeless companion asked him,” Who was that.”

“He’s nothing,” he said.

That night the rain came down, large cold drops falling upon his body. He didn’t seek cover. He sat there in the rain and thought about how much he loved the rain, he thought about how much he loved her and nothing.

“This is nothing.”

It was a thunderstorm, and the night was loud. There was lightning. And across from where he sat, drenched and happy about nothing, he saw a building catch on fire after being struck by lightning.

The building was ablaze, pure fire. It was the building where his wife used to work. She no longer exists. She was nothing.

He stared at the building covered in light, the raindrops fell, the thunder was there, and there was the lightning. He sat there. He sat there and remembered. He remembered when his wife was alive. He remembered the touch of her skin, her voice. He remembered her kindness and compassion. He remembered her smile and the way she slept. He remembered. He remembered her last day.

The building burned. He sat there and watched it before it was washed out. He went to sleep. The next day was bright and fresh. The air was cool. He woke up and looked at the remains of the building.

“It’s nothing now,” he said. “Nothing is nothing. And nothing is fine.”

His homeless friend, who had sought shelter during the storm, came back and asked him what happened.

“Nothing,” he said.

He closed his eyes and let the shiny day press upon his face.

His friend, his childhood friend and former colleague, came back to give him some money—he did this daily.

“I’m sorry,” his friend said.

“It’s nothing.”

As he watched his friend walk away, he thought about everything. And everything was the past, and everything was just memories. And his memories was everything, and it was his wife.

“I miss you,” he said.

“What’s that?” his homeless friend asked.

“Nothing.”

Before he moved to another place, it would be his last move, he had one last memory of her. He remembered. They were sitting on the grass of their front yard. It was midnight and it was raining, and the night was pure and dark and starless. There was no sky. And they talked about everything and nothing. It was the night before she died. And it was his last memory before going. And it was everything and nothing. And he smiled before going.