He continues to look at the dog. It seems unobjectionable as far as he can tell. He wordlessly steps aside to allow both dog and, potentially, the dog's accomplice space to enter. There is little to be done by the way of concealing the meandering mathematical scrawl that mantles nearly all corners and walls, and so he opts simply to disregard the flawlessly captured, loosely constructed, proportionately accurate proverbial elephant in the room.

"I don't have - anything," he says, the words a slow, puzzled drag over the burgeoning lassitude of a day that stretches forward with no conceivable end. Possibly there is coffee somewhere in his apartment. Possibly. The unclear context of his statement becomes woefully apparent and he revises it, hastily, to a bemused murmur of, "what is it you want, exactly?"