Work in progress...

Feliks stared into rays of ochre, which caught the thick dust that rose from every surface; creating great shards of fallow pasts. It was late afternoon and the room soaked in thick, honey-like phosphoresce of the ceaselessly abiding summer. Every memory was doused in sticky, cloying heat that hung in the air; and around sweat drenched necks, like a relentless noose of humidity.
 
Each morning the sick chirrup of birds was an ironically loveless aubade, and as the days wore on, the song would only gain momentum in the near thoughtless minds of its tortured listeners.

He sat on an uncomfortable brown sofa, in this forlorn flat with it's laminated wood-effect floors and lightly stained walls, his languorously lithe legs stretched out in front of him.

He considered himself the failing Renaissance man, his drawing was not awful but nothing more than average and his endless writing on life, love and astonishingly, artful beauty were so infantile and overwrought as to be almost entirely laughable. 

He wore purposefully shabby clothing and could oft be seen practising strongly affected 'deep-in-thought' glances. His face had a geometric symmetry that was belied only by a slight overbite and overly deep-set eyes. He was not significantly handsome and his jaw had an irritating habit of clicking every time he opened it wide enough to be of any use.