Forsaken by those who found him a drain on their lives, he lie in bed quite alone. The bed was unkempt, sheet-less and generally dirty; a quality he found proved redundant in his life, and kept him at odds with the world around him. He knew though that in his bed he could be content, as any fighting would take place in his own head, and rationalization is an amazingly helpful tool when used correctly. Anyhow, it just so worked out that the crack between the frame of the bed and the wall created a place for him to sink into and make believe he had disappeared. This was something he did quite often. The "hole" was really his favorite place. Although, just as most places he went, he didn't really fit in; and quite literally in this case.

He thought a lot about potential. He spent the majority of his time running over and over in his mind the vast potential he had, the innumerable things he could do. Contemplating was his favorite thing to do; but kept him in his bed where innumerable things can most definitely not be done. He was not always this way though.

He once took to writing, but figured nobody was going to read it, and dropped it like a bad book. He tried teaching himself guitar, but decided the teacher didn't know what he was talking about and gave up. Finally, he thought that drawing would be fun. He spent the first week using pen and ink and really enjoyed it. Unfortunately, the next week he moved to charcoals and burned his house down. Cooking was just a flame as well. Nothing seemed to spark his interests after that, and he thought maybe contemplating is good enough.