The door was struck open. "What for, Christian?" Buried under the hush of his bunk, he cried, "Don't you see me asleep? Now my dream is crooked!"
Nevermind, it's mid-day already after all. The sky was aglare without a sun. He held out his hand for the heater and promptly flinched. Beneath, cars were all sloping by. Only a few. Tires jostling against the ground. And he stood up to a hasty halt - "Damn this. Good morning! This is, Berlin. Again, quite right." There isn't a thing as crisp and melodious as a trumpet call back in reality. But he jittered for a second, and slumped back. Bored with his fatiguing smartphone screen, ain't got nothing to do. The Red Dead Redemption guy, he minded, was still next door, behind the eerily green city map and a layer of painted wood, hands hemmed in girlfriend. Hehe he smirked, "human tackiness", and resumed unto his screen, red and green and blue lights blasting unto his face.
But, because, you see, even on Quora, it's all lottery, and he's got an adiabatic black pot and a white plastic box with a red lid, hence all the belongings, he's got nothing genuinely to squint for - a multivitamin pill with rice, keeps a doctor away. Even not, he did not pay Techniker Krankenkasse for nothing. "To have something to bite, or to read, or not, into a navy blue money can. Fill it up, fill it up you fool." He hopped vainly under the shadow of sofa. The floor vibrated, the Spanish danced - the skirt forever white, the smile forever warm and a shredded green onion towered in the mug.
A little fume in the toilet as the light went out, he kowtowed under the flashbulb, proudly and painstakingly. Love him! Scrub it! There you go, hot and lubricated, not a cut in two decades. And the shaft is almost visible, yellow lights and a brownish silhouette, and the scratchy cat that always refuses to enter. Wow, dare you to go through.
Psst, shush, quiet, be considerate, after the Indian movie, stuffed in the short couch. And he proceeded on his heedless Apple Keyboard on Windows. No Rainbow Six: Siege today. Nothing. This plainness, nearly resigned, motherfuckers on the brink. He then made a grab on the mouse, to click through things. "It is on you, Mr. Ciaran. Totally on you." He squibbed, and guiltily lowered his head into a larger chunk of seasoned light. Remember when? The old days or whatever. It used to be clearer, even without glasses. Huh? Now there's not a way to clean, a back hum, tripping and resonant. O' Clara. Why? So tell me. Tell me yet another time, before letting it on to be modest and kind.
His arse, since two weeks, had been scorched. His back leaned on two glasses, where moisture condensed. His cloth, the same one, darkened by daytime. The breeze came in, and the shirt slightly swang. He covered his face as if someone out there was looking. Keep it on. Keep it tidy. Keep it like the old days, like the woolly hat. Stand up still like a man. Calm and young and fearless ahead, mudded and afresh. His pair of thinly chubby legs and his fingers were in company. Hung on the wall was yesterday's rim.
It was then remembered that, for this day, an old man once stood here, his neck pouchy and his jaw loose.
But triumphant.
