Gemotions

He felt a pull in his gut, an insistent urge to *do something*. Anything. The empty apartment echoed his agitation. He'd spent the morning staring at the ceiling, then staring out the window. Now, he was staring at a box for "Mr. Alistair Finch," the previous resident.

The box was plain, unremarkable. He picked it up and weighed it in his hands. He wanted to throw it. He wanted to stomp on it. Instead, he carried it to the kitchen table. The tape was stubborn, but he ripped it open, a jagged tear in the brown cardboard.