He sat up on his couch hands clenched together looking around his room. The smell of deodorant and unwashed clothes lingered in the air. As he gazed upon the timber floor, he spotted dots spattered in small groups. As he looked closer, the dots appeared red: blood. He hadn’t seen much of it recently but wasn’t shocked to see it. These were the traces of his hatred toward many things, himself included. He stood up a little too quickly and felt a bit dazed for a moment and headed clumsily toward his desk where he withdrew a pen and a notebook from his drawer. Though his mind was cluttered still with numbers and thoughts and memories, he placed his pencil upon paper and began drawing. He had no idea what he was drawing, in fact he never knew what he was drawing unless someone had given him a specific something to draw. As he leaned back to look at what had become of the blank piece of paper, he had found a feather sketched onto it. The upper part of the feather had a minor separation of the feather hairs while the lower part of the feather had been “split” into three sections. It was rather small but nonetheless detailed. He folded it up into a small rectangle, small enough to fit into a purse or a wallet perhaps.

He always found the sound of music combined with the sound of rain incredibly relaxing. Classical, Chopin, Bach, Debussy, especially Beethoven. There were some modern composers such as Yann Tierson or Kyle Landry but modern classical music is harder to find now than then. He browsed through his collection of CDs and selected a one at random. Bossa Nova music. He slipped it into the player and stood up, going for the bed. But as he stood up, he looked once more at the feather and found it a little white space. He pondered for a while and scribbled something in.

As he lay on his bed, he dropped the feather onto his bedside table and began drift off into a sleep full of thoughts and yet his sleep was full. Like his feather, his thoughts - in his sleep - began to...

...float away.