And he plugged in.
He lifted his shirt, flicked and tucked away some dust and mess from his belly button, sat against the wall, back-straight, and fit his spine into the vertical charger. Some rummaging, some swaying, but the eventual click. The mirror opposite told him the dulled whites of his eyes had flicked to lime green wash; he was in. He wanted music and dreams and a home, but he had to wait for the charge. A wait to drink it in. A boy who wanted to be a hanging picture, not the leaning mess on the floor’s back. No surprise.
The back of his head, his backing, took to the cold wall as he ran it across a small clump of dried paint, scratching at a spot somewhere on his scalp. Pop. His back took to the wall, too, and so his curved neck, the space untouched by brick, caused irritation. Phantom irritation.
There was too much hair on his knees, he thought; a sign of diabetes, he had once read – maybe. His shins were balding (both), but of the two patches it was the right-sided patch that lacked subtlety, and through his socks he could see his second toe was longer than the first. These are the type of things you think of in a state of charge, he thought.
Sitting there for hours, the charge bar hadn’t yet reached halfway, but the energy fell into him like fierce surges of electric waves. Progress. Feel.
He drifted in his impatience and dreamed dreams of her and of a home somewhere else. [Buy.]