Torch eats lunch without washing, always. The dirt is forever there, beneath the nails. It is permanent as a tattoo, broken across ten spaces from thumb to thumb. He has learned not to taste the oil and grease or tastes it and doesn't care. These aren't things he thinks about often.
For now, as Torch if found to do, he thinks of nothing. If anything, he thinks of the sandwich pinched between his fingers, the small bottle of water at the tip of his boot, the rotating sun, but only as it relates to the heat he must work in until quitting time.
The world around him is simply the world around him and he little more than a part of that world, no more or less important than the cutter that sits waiting to be fixed or the cloud crawling the sky in need of nothing.