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Stan heads out early, needing to clear his head.
Everything keeps happening all at once, and it feels noisy, both inside and out of his head, his body. It's when he catches himself cleaning the kitchen at two in the morning, scrubbing at a spot on the stove that never comes completely clean, that he knows he's on the edge, and though he stubbornly drags himself to bed, he doesn't sleep.
Instead, he gets back out of bed at six, and ends up hauling a thermos of coffee and his birdwatching backpack out to a remote corner of the park, one of his favorite spots. Not a lot of foot traffic, but enough that someone would find his body if he were murdered, for one. A variety of birds but the soothing knowledge of which ones he's going to see, for another.
The morning is cold, but he's dressed for it, the coffee taking care of the rest even if it does nothing for his nerves. He knows he should be studying for finals. Instead, he watches a brilliantly colored male indigo bunting hop from branch to branch, sketchpad open and untouched.
Everything keeps happening all at once, and it feels noisy, both inside and out of his head, his body. It's when he catches himself cleaning the kitchen at two in the morning, scrubbing at a spot on the stove that never comes completely clean, that he knows he's on the edge, and though he stubbornly drags himself to bed, he doesn't sleep.
Instead, he gets back out of bed at six, and ends up hauling a thermos of coffee and his birdwatching backpack out to a remote corner of the park, one of his favorite spots. Not a lot of foot traffic, but enough that someone would find his body if he were murdered, for one. A variety of birds but the soothing knowledge of which ones he's going to see, for another.
The morning is cold, but he's dressed for it, the coffee taking care of the rest even if it does nothing for his nerves. He knows he should be studying for finals. Instead, he watches a brilliantly colored male indigo bunting hop from branch to branch, sketchpad open and untouched.
