of Hobgoblins and Hot Dogs
Dr. Whitten wakes from another of his blackouts, smelling faintly of roses... again. He wishes he knew why that was. But the blue pills... don't help with memory, but they do wonders for the headaches. And supposedly for the 'episodes', and he's currently with it enough to keep taking them.
He sits up on a park bench, slowly reassembling his thoughts. Hunger, pain, blurry vision, crack on the lenses a little bigger... must have fallen... ex-wife... how long ago? The shattered pieces slowly work back together into something like coherency, while he mutters to himself without paying much attention to his surroundings.
He sits up on a park bench, slowly reassembling his thoughts. Hunger, pain, blurry vision, crack on the lenses a little bigger... must have fallen... ex-wife... how long ago? The shattered pieces slowly work back together into something like coherency, while he mutters to himself without paying much attention to his surroundings.