Pink coloured milk in white rimmed mug painted with pictures of cows. Headphones in head, he swayed to music he loved. Eyes read strenuously in a dark room under the lamp, rummaging into the black and white letters of a thick uncensored magazine. He had brought a Cannabis cutting a week back, in the name of Feng Shui.
The sun outside dare not enter the little heartthrob’s dorm. The room was as cool as the ground under palm shade, just like his mind. He had his own little necropolis inside there, painted green and hazy.
His heart pounded to the beat of music, while his mind muffled around the stories in the magazine. The paradoxical, conflicting character of the tasks that occupied him indicated he was whiling his time. Wait lingered at the back of his brain like shadow. He wondered when they would arrive. With dashing helmets on a teleporting bike that blows fire. Today was the day of the escape. He watched the clock with beaming eyes. His eyes baggy with dark circles followed the hands of the clock, and he pondered why they were late.
And then the gruntt of the motor cycle met his ear.
The blow of the engine. The heat sealed within the joy of fleeing away met him.
The milk was spilled on ironed denim. The page of the novel wasn’t bookmarked. Marijuana spoke to him through fresh chords it had made with his soul, and hallucination arrived on a flying machine.