5 Things Your Character Thinks About Late at Night ..... go!
5 :: He's going to feel really dumb if he goes back and Magneto unceremoniously boots him right back.
4 :: Liz wouldn't boot him out (and if she did it'd be temporary, okay, until he fixed what he did wrong and understood) and so, comas make no sense.
3 :: Unfortunately this is the gayest thing in the world so he can't ever say it but: he sleeps better with someone else there breathing, not necessarily right next to him, but across the room even. He figured this out the seventh night after leaving, when all the walls of his room were metal.
(He's loitering right at the brink of meditation, where there aren't really any words. This isn't what he's thinking, and he wouldn't be able to explain it if he tried. Blame his sense of persecution. He does. Vaguely. If minds are seas, then this is an
invisible, warm
undercurrent, and to try to differentiate would be to destroy. This reminds him of early days in the room with Liz, killing the fidgets and trying to not try. This then returns him to a place he can form sentences in.)
2 :: The sentence fragment "If Liz never wakes up" can be followed by a lot of -- too many -- things, which he's not going to go through as they're all variations of the same angry, twisty, lonely bad feeling that gets bounced back and magnified whenever he talks to Henry. Tomorrow he'll go buy more cigarettes and he can already feel it's going to be like the world got cut out and pasted on a paper plate, and it turns around with the hospital unmoving at the center.
1 :: Just a touch. Of course. Because he'd known when he first saw her, the kind of toughness that's lasting and reassuring and never really goes away because it's in you too, when you look back at her. No one can do anything to that. So they break the rules. Touch. The most voluntary sense. The great invisible they, who're only more terrible when they're nobody and nothing. The winners.
0 :: ... He might as well get up.
4 :: Liz wouldn't boot him out (and if she did it'd be temporary, okay, until he fixed what he did wrong and understood) and so, comas make no sense.
3 :: Unfortunately this is the gayest thing in the world so he can't ever say it but: he sleeps better with someone else there breathing, not necessarily right next to him, but across the room even. He figured this out the seventh night after leaving, when all the walls of his room were metal.
(He's loitering right at the brink of meditation, where there aren't really any words. This isn't what he's thinking, and he wouldn't be able to explain it if he tried. Blame his sense of persecution. He does. Vaguely. If minds are seas, then this is an
invisible, warm
undercurrent, and to try to differentiate would be to destroy. This reminds him of early days in the room with Liz, killing the fidgets and trying to not try. This then returns him to a place he can form sentences in.)
2 :: The sentence fragment "If Liz never wakes up" can be followed by a lot of -- too many -- things, which he's not going to go through as they're all variations of the same angry, twisty, lonely bad feeling that gets bounced back and magnified whenever he talks to Henry. Tomorrow he'll go buy more cigarettes and he can already feel it's going to be like the world got cut out and pasted on a paper plate, and it turns around with the hospital unmoving at the center.
1 :: Just a touch. Of course. Because he'd known when he first saw her, the kind of toughness that's lasting and reassuring and never really goes away because it's in you too, when you look back at her. No one can do anything to that. So they break the rules. Touch. The most voluntary sense. The great invisible they, who're only more terrible when they're nobody and nothing. The winners.
0 :: ... He might as well get up.