The windows rattle without you

He felt lodged, exhaling bourbon with his left calf resting on his right quad. Breaking from the obnoxious repetition of the usual scene with those he barely knew. Wearing a worn pair of cargos, sandals, and a button up that kept its form despite its meeting with the corner of his dresser drawer, appearing in a blank stare but nothing was true of the sort. Something inspired by Nabokov stained his forearm. Reminiscing, observing, noting. Whenever he wasn't sure of an idea or situation he rubbed the palm of his right roughly against his nose as if it would present clarity. It was morning, but hours before the sun would climb. His eyes were seemingly lost, starting to take on a redish colour as the eye of Jupiter, lids falling. Deft hands doodling a series of shaded circles, curved lines, and zags into an animal or a person perhaps. Staring through a random, his gaze focused on what seemed familiar in the background. Brunette as unconsciously preferred, she reminded him of another. She felt like a collection of black and white pictures and the sound of a '96 rock band from London from across the room. Not able, but soon.