What are you wearing right now...?
Half-dead or something of the like, slung over his torn leather sofa like an old, useless, waste of semen. The record player’s needle is caught in one of the grooves, I guess, and it’s bouncing this unpleasantly shrill sound off the walls of these tiny confines. It’s supposed to be a song from Houses of the Holy but it sounds more like Houses of Hell. Abel’s House of Hell. Our orphan would have spaced out for a good ten minutes more if it weren’t for the vibrations coming from his ass. His ass is vibrating. When will he ever get used to that. He’s almost too weak to pull the casket personified that’s his sleep-deprived self up, and when he does, the fine text he reads has a little glint of amusement tickling dry lips. A shaky thumb replies, slowly replies “not much of anything” and he returns to his meditative state. If you can even call it that.