* // drabble 002.
He puts his phone down, minutes after posting on Instagram. Restlessness still ebbs at his form as he lays there on his bed, motionless. Rumpled white sheets are strewn about his body as he stares, burnt umber mixed with ultramarine scintillating back and forth within his gaze, brewing it into the chestnut hazel that he's grown familiar with when looking in the mirror. His arms are resting behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling, ruminating, one hand coming down to run along the front of his figure, down his chest.
It feels nice to be alone, beyond the thick of it all.
He thinks this once his gaze has shifted over through the floor length windows of his Miami office, just beyond his bed and his television set mounted on the wall. The balcony door suggests a sense of privacy in the midst of all his music sourcing and DJing. They're only here for album press business.
He's had a brief moment of casting eyes along the sea line and horizon, but it just brings him too much space for introspection and the weight in his chest prevents him from lingering too long on the vastness and beauty that encroaches him every time he casts his energy outwards towards the sun. His mind five steps ahead of his actions, he already knows he's going to turn on his computer.
It's been one of those night.
He sits up, face rubbed over by his hand, cycling up into his short sandstorm tresses. Hair coarse with remnants of product, the ocean, stale alcohol, and intercourse. A sigh escapes, sheets tossed and legs swung over. The sound of bare feet scuffing against Milan vitrified off white ceramic floors is the only thing that can be heard. Out turned feet fall as he makes his way towards his computer, but then stops. He could step up onto the hardwood step the leads towards the marbled office enclosure. But instead, he shifts back towards his opened closet on the other side of the room-- remembers where he's stashed his new laptop.
Backpack retrieved, he's seated now ( lovechair ), silver laptop on his lap and thumbnail caught between bicuspids. He signs on, but it takes longer than usual. He has to double check his secured network, find his pre-programmed rootkit, assure his signal is bouncing from multiple internet towers first. But it doesn't deter him, the added protection for his safety. It's worth it, he muses, thumb brushing over his bottom lip now as he pulls up the desired website in question. Soon enough, the keys begin to clack.
Click to continue.