Grey trousers with holes but few compared to his light-skin-toned shirt. One leg on the other, with a dead stare at a stack of wood shining on the fiery skylight.
it looks he took the rights never thinking the same turns make a spiral
The poverty-stricken skin and the hard-labour muscles aren’t frightening; that head's imagination or its deep void can’t be less terrifying.
the pale eyes were toneless —one might take them for blind— but underneath flesh and inside the hollow heart sits a little blue guy whose chirps aren’t recognised
The man sits in coldness. Waiting for nothing. Wishing for nothing. Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning.