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24

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5'9

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Black/Brown

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Brown

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No

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No

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Not right now, oh the sorted tale of my love life... >.>;;;

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Yes.

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Yes, on several occasions, it gets boring sometimes... I'm more prone to doing this when there are actually other things to be done.

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Not really.

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Don't know, never let the psyches get close enough to tell :P

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The "fictional" worlds I write about.

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White Slacks, Orange silk Button up, Glasses, Headphones around my neck.

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Ehh... So-so.

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The All American Rejects - "Move Along." [The album, not the song.]

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Blindingly or blissfully ignorant people.

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Finishing a drawing I have going on an Oekaki Board, designing terrain sprites for one of my projects, working on one of my webcomics.

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Fruit Juices.

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Red/Purple.

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Twizlers.

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"The Butterfly Effect".

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The few people that I hold dear, due to the fact that I can actually stand them.

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Neither, Carls Jr.!

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Neither, Cola!

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Rain, I like the feeling and light level of overcast.

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Fall, its Cooler, litterally.

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Winter, Colder and darker than summer.

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Strawberry.

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Off.

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Rezera turned aside pulling his legs up into the bus stall, laying his temple against the headrest as he peered out the window at the passing scenery. The boy, for lack of a better term, had the look of a man, albeit a young one, and definitely the age of one; but something in him didn't agree, he was fragile, slightly unpredictable, and at times it showed. Thoughts floated freely through his head as the hills rolled past behind pane of the bus' window; thoughts about class, thoughts about writing and artwork he'd all but abandoned, sometimes days ago sometimes weeks. Again, thoughts of the disappointment he'd felt lately, and of the guilt he felt toward some of the people he was closer too, or at least wanted to be closer too. Although he was only a few days into his next semester of classes; the ride was already routine, it had been since the day he set foot back on the bus. He'd simply been here, and done this before.

He pulled a pair of bud earphones from a packet on the hiker's pack he usually carried; crammed with his usual variety of "equipment" a sketchbook or two, a book on physics of math, useless to him but necessary to slip of paper he'd been pursuing, a few CDs and a portable player, notebooks of paper filled with notes, pertaining to many things, most of the unrelated to classes or school, and often times filled with doodles or other such nonsense. Cracking his neck gently, he slipped the buds into his ears, stringing them down from the black furred cones to follow that cord further to its end in the prong of an audio jack. The boy turned in his seat, pulling his legs up again as his back slid across the material of the seats coming to rest against the metal of the wall; his head tilted back, eyes momentarily locking on the florescent lights mounted in the ceiling, which were all that more apparent as the dusk began to claim the scenery at the peripheries of vision. His eyes closed, quietly sampling the noise of tires on pavement, and the hum of the engine for a few moments before his fingers slid to the little black arrow emblazoned on the player the buds had been plugged into, a mix list of tracks from his music collection at home clicking into perception. Most of it bitter-sweet melodies, with matching lyrics, interspersed with moments of upbeat enthusiasm, all of them displaced by a press of the finger and the entry of the following track before a song that bit a little deeper made its way to his ears.

is eyes fluttered open, the way they were accustomed to doing, he often looked to be sleeping on the long ride home most nights; but most of the time he watched people, usually from behind a half-lidded gaze. An unfamiliar face making him remember a familiar one, a former lover, a friend, someone he missed dearly, someone he'd upset and disappointed; though someone he'd already consciously marked as a hypocrite and a traitor, however as was usual of him, words and thoughts didn't sync up perfectly, and his heart didn't follow along with his head. The only thing he could bring himself to do was let a sigh pass his lips and dismiss it, that was already long since over; and it really made no sense to dwell on it, and thus put himself back to the lyrics. He was actually muttering along to them now, "singing" as loud as he could without being heard, he wasn't really interested in doing a good job of it, or even vocalizing, the words mainly crossed his lips to divide his attention; "Here I go... Scream my lungs out, and try to get to you... you are my only, my only one... I let go, there's just no one, that gets me like you do... you are my only, my only one..." The repetition itself is probably what made him see the error in his judgment; the words, now spoken, cut deeper than before. He took for himself another quiet sign and breath before shifting again in his seat, pulling his legs up against the back of the chair in front of him, turning his head to stare out into the dimming dusk; repeating to himself, "that... was mighty foolish..."

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