The day had started late, after the artist had slept in. His previous evening had been tame, consisting mainly of being on his own, eating a couple of tacos, and day-meditating - which was his own concept. Day-meditation was similar to day dreaming, but with intentional internal reflection as he sat solo while out in public. It was a way to direct and experience his thoughts, without allowing them to wander out into pure imagination. Instead, he would let them loose for a few moments, and then reel them back and focus. His breath, a constant reminder to ground himself. Some people call this mindfulness, but the artist preferred the term day-meditating.

The dinner itself was quick, requiring little time to consume the tacos. He had spent more time in his meditative state. Usually these meditations resulted in a calm, introspective demeanor. Sometimes the feeling would extend to a numbness and calm feeling that rivaled a marijuana high. This mood wasn’t quite that strong; it was more of a casual relaxation. However, his mind, relaxed as it was, did not stop wandering and wondering.

Introspection often led the artist to new realizations about himself, which then often led to something like growth. These realizations were like strange reflections from a funhouse mirror, allowing the artist to see himself in a real, but distorted and ugly way. Faced with these reflections and realizations, the artist would consider who and what he saw, and ask himself if this is who he wanted to be.

Yet, sometimes this practice went in a different directions. Sometimes, confronted with the oft unfamiliar truth of himself, the artist descended into depression. It was a reaction to the reality of who he was, of what he saw in himself. This disappointment would extend to his works, as he saw the reality of himself in his art. Sometimes this led to destruction of the evidence extant in his creations. Sometimes it led to personal debasement. After all, who was he, except the evidence of his convictions?

This day, after the late sleep in, the artist found himself in such a state, and spiraling downward. Each thought led to another deeper, more disappointing realization about himself. And each work was evidence and affirmation of his failure as an artist and person. The mediocrity and mundaneness of his work ate at him. His inability to connect with people tore away his outer shell, leaving his emotions raw and exposed. This meta-state of depression, and iterative reflection and continued depression became a demon of consequence. The consequences being sadness, apathy, ennui, and self-deprecation. The artist would berate himself as he continued to live in his head.

This state of mind ended in several ways. Sometimes, the artist would simply exhaust himself, and drift off after pulling himself into a fetal position. Sometimes, the artist would find a creative energy, and maniacally express this mood into some kind of work. Sometimes, the artist would open a bottle of whiskey, and start on it. A few pours would be the thing to calm his mind - pulling it down or up to some familiar level. But then, a desire to maintain, to exceed this level, would push him further. And he would find himself, the next morning, in the same fetal position, but lights on, and glass half full.

But, sometimes, the artist found himself in an altogether different state of mind. This state was not brought on by any particular drink, thought, or introspection. Certainly, there was probably some common root cause, but he couldn’t identify it. Whatever the cause, the artist found this place dark, comfortable, and, in its own way, peaceful. In these moments, he was calm, and deeply engaged in his own perception of himself. But it was no longer introspection. Instead, it was more like transcendent understanding of himself.

Given to his own devices and motivation, the artist might never escape these vignettes. An unmarked bottle of pills in his bathroom had been set aside for these moments. Not as something to bring him back up, but rather, as something to keep him down, all the way down.

The artist sat on his bed, and kept a keen stare toward the bottle. Every so often, he would pick it up and fondle the round edges; he would twist the cap; he would consider himself and the contents of the bottle. He would wonder if he had good or bad information, and if the contents of the bottle were true or fraudulent.

You might think that someone in this state might think of certain things. You might think they would consider the consequences. You might think they would have some positive perspective on life, on themselves. Some anchor. That they might find something like a “reason to live”. But that’s really, really not how it works. This is like thinking that the person who has a deathly fear of bees should have a rational and calm reaction when one lands on them; but they don’t. Thinking of bees rationally, as simple harmless creatures is not a thing that occurs to them. And they are caught in a reaction. And if more bees were to arrive, this would spiral and crescendo. And the person in the midst of the bees has only one thought, one motivation: get out of this situation, get away from the bees. And so it was for the artist. Get out of this situation. No anchor. Only adrift at sea. The bottle represented nothing but bee killer. And so he continued to turn it over in his hand, as the bees continued to buzz around his head. As the waves continued to bash and shove his boat.

***

The next day, the artist awoke sharply. The lights yelling at him, the glass mostly empty, the, mostly empty, bottle several inches away from his grasp on the bed. On the floor, the ghosts of dead bees. But a new day is like a new chance, a new opportunity. Because, the artist is really an optimist. He expects and wants good things. Like a seaman on a sandy beach after the storm.

But he also considers himself a realist. The optimism is what he wants. And though he expects it, he is rarely surprised when it doesn't materialize. There is no shock when the bad thoughts, the down thoughts, appear - when he finds himself over top the downward spiral and ready to fall into it. And it's no mistake, he willingly steps into the pit. The sense of danger is comforting, and the feeling of falling is familiar, like stepping into a volcano. The feeling of falling had always been a terrible comfort zone for him. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, he felt at home. Like a sideshow freak who lays on a bed of nails, the pain didn’t exist in this world.

Although he only just awoke, it is already early afternoon. His phone appears to have several messages waiting for him. As he picks it up to inspect the messages, he gets a call. It is from Florence. Florence is a somewhat complex presence in his life. She was assigned male at birth, but presents herself as female. She is 22 years old, with medium blonde hair. In a glance, you might mistake her for Lady Gaga. She isn't tall, and her figure is slight. But her posture and demeanor is strong, solid, respectable. He answers the call...

"What's up, bitch?" she says.

"Oh man... hey. Nothing. Just woke up."

"Well, what are you doing tonight?"

Before he could answer, she continued...

"Going up to The Mill House later to catch a friend's band. They've got this cool blend of rave beats and punk rock. We're heading there around 10. You up for it?"

"Yeah - cool. Sounds great. See you there."

"You better be there, bitch."

"I ain't nobody's bitch... well, maybe yours. But yeah, I'll be there."

The last time he had hung out with Florence, they had a long night. It started with a band, and included getting really high, eating late night pizza, and making it back to his place to discuss their differing opinions on art and philosophy. But there was something enchanting about Florence. A perfect blend of feminine softness, with the right dose of masculine intensity. Her go-with-the-flo (no pun intended) attitude resonated with him as well.

Fast forward to that evening. The artist wandered into the club a little past 11pm, to the sound of loud beats and neon lasers shining around the ceiling. The lasers provided limited reflection against the black interior, which helped the overwhelmingly black-clad audience remain incognito.

Near the front of the crowd, he could easily spot Florence’s bright orange hair bobbing with the beat. He made his way over to her. Flo’s tight black faux patent leather dress was hugging her taught figure as she moved to the music. Several waify emo guys were dancing near her; though none could muster the confidence to actually dance with her. Their indistinguishable uniform of tight black pants, boots, shirts, and hair - their slight, non-muscular frames - their constant shoe gazing and their clearly-stoned look, all made Florence amused and disgusted. These were the conforming non-conformists. They wanted to be both outside mainstream society, and welcomed in this sub-society. Florence couldn’t give a fuck. Their constant presence and consistent appearance made them nearly invisible to hear. They were part of floor, of the ambiance. Sure, they were people, but not the people she wanted to associate with.

She knew their conversation too well. They were depressed. They wanted to be artists. Their range of emotional expression was the same as a gnat. Their education was moderate at best, as their interests were limited to primal instincts. Inevitably, every conversation led to a cheap entre to sexual innuendo. That’s not to say that Florence never indulged. But usually, she was much more discerning, and these boys mostly bored her. And there was also the inevitable biological mixup that would leave her disappointed, and the boy confused. She has resigned herself to be more particular - smoking out the posers, the idiots, the prejudiced, and the in-confident and non-expressives.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

***

An off-kilter bar stool supported Florence, while the artist sips a cloudy ESB. And they are all surrounded by others. Can't they just order their fucking drinks elsewhere at the bar? And what's with all the fucking smiling? It might be nice outside, but really, inside - it's miserable, even disconcerting.

So for several minutes, they just sit there. Florence still moving to the beat from the dance floor. The artist looking like maybe he should have stayed in bed. The ESB seems to have injected a little life into him, so he ordered a bourbon to bring himself back down a little. He didn't want to be too awake. He liked this moderate state of sleepy, peripherally aware, moving, but mostly still in a dream.

Flo started to tell him something, but he only caught parts of it. Each thing became an image in his wakeful dream, and the things blended together. The adjectives, too, blended together. His dream was a collaboration of every moment she mentioned, but he could perceive all of it at once. The more she talked, the more of a map was revealed, and he could navigate the terrain in any order he chose. As she finished, the dream vision persisted. He spent a few moments exploring and memorizing it, so that he could set it aside and revisit it later.

Florence could tell he was hearing her, but not processing like normal. Still, she continued the story. At the end, she ordered a cocktail. When the artist had come back into focus, he looked at her. Through a window behind her, he could see the outline of some industrial building. It was silhouetted by the bright industrial lights behind it. His focus was lost briefly in that moment before it came back to Florence. She stared at him; she captured his attention; he smiled at her. "How has the music been?", he finally asked.

Still representing the rhythm in her seat, she began to exaggerate her moves as she told him: "It would have been better in a bubble with you, my love."

This made him want to smile, and in his mind he had. But Florence could only detect a small movement of his lips into a slight grimace. "Wanna get out of here?".

Before she even finished the question, he had planted his feet on the ground, and taken her hand. He was guiding her through the club. He stopped in front of the men's bathroom, telling Florence - "I'll be right back", as he dropped her hand. "Darling boy, I can go in there too, you know?", she said as she followed him through the door. He approached a urinal, but just as he was about to turn, Florence aggressively steered him into a stall, and casually locked the door behind her. He was facing the toilet, with her behind him. She wrapped her arms around his torso, as her hands caressed his sides down to his waist. She tangled with his belt for a moment, before separating the leather and brass. His button fly jeans were parted within a second, and with one hand she pushed his jeans and underwear down, while the other found his cock and aimed it at the toilet. He stood firmly and relieved himself, sighing as he finished. She stroked and shook him a few times before loading him back up into his underwear and jeans. She left the belt for him to deal with, as she unlocked the stall. Two steps out of the stall, and a few other men were giving her curious looks. She just looked back at them with a wry smile and her eyebrows raised. The artist followed her out of the bathroom, and back into the club.

***

From his bed, the artist was conceiving his next work. He began by setting up several rudimentary easels in addition to his primary real easel. He arranged them in a circular pattern around himself. In all, there were 10 easels facing him - each containing a 12" x 12" canvas stretched across a pine frame. Next, he created 10 distinct base tones - one for each of the images.

He put in some earbuds and settled on Adele's "25" album. The opening piano chords of "Hello" set a mood in the artist. "Hello, can you hear me" - he heard this from the music. But, then, he heard it again - a different voice. It was still relatively early in the day, and the artist was merely putting some organization into his work. He hadn't yet had anything to alter his mind or mood, other than the music. But there it was again - "Hello, can you hear me?".

He pretended it was something he had heard in the music, but simply hadn't recognized before. As the track ended, he heard it once more, in a deep voice: "Hello, can you hear me?". He took the earbuds out, and examined them. He examined his phone. Nothing obvious to him.

His next step was to get a charcoal pencil and sketch on each canvas. On the first canvas, he created a torso which was reminiscent of Michelangelo's David sculpture. On another, he drew a right arm holding a scale. The next, a left arm with a snake wrapped around it. The next, a hairy leg with a cloven hoof. The next, a mechanical leg, like what you might expect on a humanoid robot.

On the fifth canvas, he drew a head with a face that resembled Joseph Merrick, if his deformities had been smooth like a neutral white carnival mask. The look on the face was haunting, with a slight wry smile.

After this, he took a break. The album had completed in his ears, and now he was ready for an auditory break as well. He first just laid in bed, allowing his work to settle in his mind. He felt hungry, but didn't really feel like eating. Instead, he put on his shoes and went outside for a walk. The air would invigorate him.

His feet on the sidewalk created a rhythm in his head. His head was mostly down, watching his steps, creating a visual rhythm. It was still early afternoon, but within a few blocks he was at The Blistering Sun pub. The door was open an inch or so, like it almost always was. He grabbed the handle and entered, finding himself about 3 steps from a stool at the bar. A yellow-haired slim guy came from the back room, and upon seeing the artist, extended his arms, and walked toward him with an exaggerated swagger. "Get over here, beautiful!". The artist stood up, wrapped his arms, and placed a brief, but serious kiss on the lips.

"Hi EB. I didn't think you were working days anymore?"

"Money is money, bitch - you know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

EB lifted a hinged portion of the bar, walked behind the bar, and asked "Well, what can I get you?".

The artist had evolved a small smile on his face since EB made an appearance. He looked up with a bit of a grin and said, "I'll have Sex With An Alligator". He couldn't help but chuckle a little as he ordered it. Honestly, he had no idea what was in it; he just enjoyed the name. EB had introduced him to the drink a few months before.

EB smiled. The last time the artist had ordered this, they had engaged in an entire conversation of double entendre and foreplay. EB tried not to get too excited as he topped the chilled fruit liquors with Jager. He put the glass on the bar in front of the artist, but didn't let go. As the artist reached for the glass, his hand wrapped around EB's. They both felt something, and smiled. The artist laughed and pulled the drink toward himself, taking a quick drink.

After two more drinks, it was getting late in the afternoon and the artist was missing his work. He paid some money, and had a last conversation with EB. "I'm heading back to work on my latest project. But, uh... join me later?".

EB smiled with wide eyes, looking excited, then frowned suddenly. "Oh dear, I'd love to. But I can't. I'm here all night."

"Ok, ok. Maybe another time?"

EB retained a disappointed look, pouty lip and all. The artist left, and walked back home. This time his feet made the rhythm, but he didn't watch them. Instead, he gazed ahead, with several thoughts racing through his mind. He was thinking about this project. He was thinking about EB. He was thinking he was feeling tired, and his bed. He was thinking how it would be for EB to come over to his bed, and then nap after, and then work on his project. But that wouldn't work. He couldn't work in front of EB. But still, he was thinking of them together.

At home, his easels had been stacked up in a corner - one atop the other. He was a bit incensed by this. His roommate ...

He had just arranged the easels back into order when his phone buzzed. "Hi beauty".

He paused. Read the message again. He had expected he wouldn't hear from EB for a few days. He had expected to come home and work on his project. "Hi".

"Slow night, I'm off early. Thought I might come by?"

A grin returned to his face. "Yeah. OK. Give me a few minutes to tidy up?"

"Well, I need a shower too!"

With no one looking, the artist blushed.

"Uhm. Right. Ok. I'll see you soon".

The artist left the canvases to rest. He tidied his room and his bed. Not long after, there was a knock at the door.

***

In the morning, the artist woke earlier than usual. The sun was up, but just barely. In his bed, his arms, legs, and torso felt lifeless and numb. His head was a fog, his mind without focus. He was searching for motivation to move, but could find none. So he just laid there on his back, the sheets covering him up to his neck. He stared at the ceiling for minutes.

Moving his head to the right, he could see EB lying next to him in a semi-fetal position, with his head on the pillow and his hands clasped under the pillow. He was peacefully sleeping, breathing easily. For moments, the artist just watched him.

He could hear his roommate making coffee. His eyes returned to the ceiling. He wanted to enjoy this moment, and record it. But the fog was still there. He couldn't focus for more than a few seconds on any particular thought. His eyes darted around the ceiling looking for something of interest, something to pull his focus. But within a few moments, his eyes would divert to something else, or his head would shift. But then, the idea came.

On a shelf near the bed was a variety of figures. The first was a skeleton with a mirrorball for a head. The second was a Marilyn Monroe figure being lowered into a volcano. The third was some kind of monster, but with a parachute - as if it were a paratrooper. Next to that was a Leica M2 camera.

The morning light reflected beautifully on EB as he slept. This was the motivation that the artist was searching for. He quietly pushed the covers down to reveal his naked body. The room was warm enough. As he stood up, he stopped for a moment to allow his blood to equalize throughout his body.

The shelf was only a step or two away. He reached for the camera, and examined it for a minute or so to be sure it was in working order. He had obsessively kept the camera loaded with Kodak Kodachrome film. A previous experience of missing a photographic opportunity had taught him a lesson. With the viewfinder to his eye, he moved around the room, with the camera pointed at the bed.

There was one view of EB asleep, and with the artist's shadow extending across the bed - the shape of his body and the camera making a dark impression on the sheets. He took several quick shots of this view. He moved in a semi-circular pattern around the bed. Finding shots as the sun became brighter through the window. At one point, EB had stirred, scratching his nose and rotating his arms and body. He ended up mostly on his back with his arms in a Y shape above his head. In the movement, his smooth upper chest was exposed as the blanket shifted to reveal EB’s ankles and feet.

The artist had especially loved the slender and svelte chest of EB. It's hairless smooth skin was like porcelain; his nipples like candy milestones across his body. The light was shining a ray through the window and illuminated the skin just above EB's nipples up to his neck. The artist snapped several shots of this image, include a few that were closer and showed only a section of EB's upper chest.

After he was satisfied, he put the camera back on the shelf. He climbed back into bed, and wrapped his arms around EB, who made a kind of snorting breathing sound for a moment, then shifted his body away from the artist, who then pulled EB closer into a spoon position. The artist drifted back to sleep, holding EB.