Robert turned his skull. The wearing carpet which had once lined the diminishing baby fat of his cheek now pressed against the sensitive part on the back of his head. Causing a very present heat, the friction of rotation seemed symbolic to Robert – the friction seemed relevant.
Lying here was perverse, lying here was paradoxical – all was not right. The black canvas of closed eyelids was painted vividly with a paintbrush of realisation. An image in primary colours was brilliantly apparent; yellowed by cowardice, nausea and disorientation, Robert and his left arm were being yanked by an angry, red shadow of Jean Paul Satre, his right by the calm, sky blue silhouette of his mother.
Simultaneously loving and hating the self induced ache against the floorboards and the grateful guilt of rejecting his bed adjacent, Robert removed himself into a dream. Robert dreamt of himself. Robert dreamt of washing up a plate in a sink, in a house, that he had bought with money that he, himself, had earned. Robert dreamt of love, between two individuals, two distinct minds joined, as one, in the matrimony of escape, in the blissful solitude of estrangement. Robert dreamt a dream of hope.
But, as an unknown tree falls to deaf ears, he remained just a man on the floor of his room, in a house his parents had bought.