He sits by his space heater, cranked to the highest setting
Mentally he is keeled over, in the same manner as the blurred, ragged faces he’d often pass by…communed around those firey tin canisters
it’s cold as fuck
meanwhile trying fester up enough comfort to retreat to his dream world - a world where he was once welcomed with open arms, quilted blankets, and homemade sweet potato pies
sleep was no longer something guaranteed in the same manner that it always had been
and most certainly not something that was needed to keep his day lively
SEE sleep has always acted as a safe haven for him, an activity that always invited positivity.
A blank canvas where his imagination was free to create his own masterpieces.
however, he found himself barred from the OUTSIDE in.
a nigga is fucking cold
and at what point did his creations become bland.
colorless. odorless. tasteless.
strokes of melancholy bullshit.
he misses sleep.
he misses serenity.
he misses his evening slice of sweet potato pie.
he misses warmth.