(no subject)
Wallace strolls through the building for a few minutes, scoping it out before choosing a room.
It's rather arbitrary when he does, opening doors - looking for the the least damage.
When he finally settles on a room he can live with, and in, he enters, shoving the door closed behind him. It sticks a little, as though it's shifted on its hinges and isn't hanging quite straight.
He'll have a look at it later, but for now, he needs to get situated and settled in.
The room's beyond dirty, and not in the best repair, but straightening and fixing it up will keep him busy. First, however, it could use some color, and without paints or canvas, he'll have to make due with what he's got.
He unrolls the painting he'd been carrying under his coat and hangs it with a few loose nails that'd worked their way out of the floorboards, using the hilt of his knife as a hammer. You learn resourcefulness in the Navy.
And that painting? A nude woman lounging seductively, with only a sheet draped over the important bits. He's both proud of the work, and ashamed at once. Not his preferred style, but it'll suffice, and he's not planning to have anyone up to his room in the meantime.
When that's done, he sits on the bed, testing it. It creaks a little, but that's not unusual.
Finally he settles in to meditate again, going to that private place, New England sun, dried leaves in September. It's easy, he's always been able to do it, and it always helped him remember.
Calm, focus, you're clear.
He'll snap out of it eventually.
It's rather arbitrary when he does, opening doors - looking for the the least damage.
When he finally settles on a room he can live with, and in, he enters, shoving the door closed behind him. It sticks a little, as though it's shifted on its hinges and isn't hanging quite straight.
He'll have a look at it later, but for now, he needs to get situated and settled in.
The room's beyond dirty, and not in the best repair, but straightening and fixing it up will keep him busy. First, however, it could use some color, and without paints or canvas, he'll have to make due with what he's got.
He unrolls the painting he'd been carrying under his coat and hangs it with a few loose nails that'd worked their way out of the floorboards, using the hilt of his knife as a hammer. You learn resourcefulness in the Navy.
And that painting? A nude woman lounging seductively, with only a sheet draped over the important bits. He's both proud of the work, and ashamed at once. Not his preferred style, but it'll suffice, and he's not planning to have anyone up to his room in the meantime.
When that's done, he sits on the bed, testing it. It creaks a little, but that's not unusual.
Finally he settles in to meditate again, going to that private place, New England sun, dried leaves in September. It's easy, he's always been able to do it, and it always helped him remember.
Calm, focus, you're clear.
He'll snap out of it eventually.