Gaping

There's a hole in his backyard, so he throws in:

Two authentic foods that devour him with the gastroriffic goodness of their truth. Three board games that he always conquers because he is the only player subject to their risky rolls of dice. Five dear friends old and new, lost and found, who pose the biggest threat to the hole. Seven fake antiques with no meaningful history but the ones in his morose mind. Eleven films for futile escapes into other worlds that would break him just the same. Thirteen glaring glossy pages of insistent instruction that tell the how-to-writer how to write. Seventeen harrowing hardcover tomes offering meanings of lives that elude the very life they claim. Nineteen plane tickets to familiar and exotic places that remind and humble his minor miniscule existence. Twenty-three scorching suns he has avoided, but that fuel the jump-and-jive journeys across foreign lands. Twenty-nine sullen songs that allow momentary lapses of rhythm for an otherwise dying dance.

There's a hole in his backyard, and it never ever seems to fill.