He's kind of obsessed with this TV show that everyone kind of forgets the name of. But he knows there's blood and guts and bombs and clouds of sulfur everywhere so he watches it. He lives in his own world, not responding to those around him because they're too confusing. They speak too much, they speak too fast. He cannot sit there and wait to understand so he tunes them out.
He's okay, he's okay, no one has to worry. He wishes he could tell them that, but his TV show is on so he's automatically sucked in. But where are the bombs? Where is the fire and the explosions? He cries and cries, all day long and he feels that no one can hear him, even though he does not know that. Then some woman that knows him (but he doesn't know her) walks in and hugs him, stroking his hair. It feels good to him, and he forgets about his TV show.
He rocks himself back and forth, a blank expression on his face. That woman that he knows got him a chair that goes back and forth and now he's happy. That woman picks up a shape he sees on cards and switches the TV to something new, something with guns and bullets and blood. He rocks himself, happy now and with a new favorite show.
He fiddles with the pen in his hand, twirling it and twirling it until the others around him become dizzy just staring at him and his mannerisms. That woman he knows (but he doesn't know her) walks in and takes the other people away. He was beginning to get nervous. He pants a little bit, rocking back in his chair and twirling the pen again. That woman he knows walks back in the room and storkes his hair, making him calm down. He looks at her, then focuses back on his TV show with explosions and blood and guts. He wishes he could thank her, but the clouds of sulfur have sucked him in again.