​ #flowersandcigs

Wake up. Brush teeth. Shower. Coffee. Sit in front of the screen and waste life away. Lunch. Sit in front of the screen and wear body out. Coffee. Look at clock. Look at cigarettes. Walk out to the balcony and take a drag. Get back in. Sit in front of the screen and wait for it to end. Look at clock. Go to bed.

Yeah, you could say he has a routine. It keeps him sane.

And boring.

But that was fine — he didn't need to impress anyone. His body a mere machine from which his work would be created, his self was not tied to this, but the many lines and colors he carefully placed. Maybe once or twice a week he would show his face to a delivery person or a neighbor, and they didn't care what he looked like or how he lived (as long as he didn't bother them).

He didn't care about that either.

…

Blue light radiating off of the screen onto the crevasses of his face. Almost like moonlight. Eyes dry in his perpetual state of sleep deprivation, Rym blinked once, slowly.

16:46

With a glance at his hands, Rym tried to convince himself out of rubbing his eyes and failed. He was tired and sleepy. The stain on his hands was now around his eyelids.

Ugh.

16:54

He looked at the 98^th square today (if he counted right), and moved it slightly so the placement was correct.

He zoomed out, looking at more squares this time.

16:58

Squares made up of smaller squares.

The gray wasn't right. Too blue — too much color.

Rym darted his eyes to the corner of the screen.

17:00

Salvation. Finally.

He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the shelf to his right; shaking it more as a reassurance than an action meant to accomplish something as he walked to pull open the door to his balcony.

Repeated motion of his thumb made flowers sprout from the lighter. They looked almost alive, the flowers. But he knew that was just magic.

Rym breathed in through his mouth, taking in clouds of fresh chemicals.

He could hear movements downstairs. A person.

"Hey,"

Rym didn't mean to actually verbalize his thoughts.

"Uh. Hey."

"You like flowers huh." It wasn't a question. He'd seen them coming out every day, looking and touching and taking the flowers. He'd seen how they shone faintly against the orange sky.

"Um, yeah."

"Well, sorry for that anyway. I forgot they would fall down… If it becomes a problem please let me know." He said, just to be polite (hopefully). "I'll do it somewhere else." Except there was literally nowhere else he could smoke.

"No! It's okay. I, uh, like them."

Good. "Cool."

He shifted, leaning on his shoulder. A head of gray moved about down below. He could see flashes of vines tattooed on their arm.

"I'm Rym, by the way." He offered.

"Timir."

Timir.

​