Emp had been awake for a couple of hours. At least, it seemed like hours had passed. Most likely, it was just the passing of a few moments akin to putting off the first morning piss.
He knew he'd been lying there for some time. The sun had passed the corner of the bed and moved slowly over the television so that he could now see himself reflected in the screen, gray and devoid of life. It was in staring at this image that he began to wonder wheteher or not the image was not the self and everything had been turned around and all that hogwash philosophical bullshit began to invade his mind until eventually he just turned back to the image in and of itself, thinking that could put him at ease.
Instead, staring into that tube of reductionism caused Emp to begin to imagine that the course of events over the past few days had not taken a drastic turn, a worrisome turn, or rather any turn at all. In fact - the events over the past few days had played out just as they had been scripted and he was the only malfunctioning cog in the machinery.
He lay there in bed, struck. He marvelled that he was able to come to the realization that he had been "struck."
"It's funny," he thought. "Usually you only read about people being 'struck' in moments of greatness or moments of tragedy." He really didn't want to move, but he knew that time was egging on because the sun had made its way into the window and spread across the room, the brightness now splaying across the screen so that our great reduced hero was no longer reflected upon it.
"Here I am," he thought, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to hover over the cold, wooden boards. "700 miles away from my own bed, trying to make good with a girl who hasn't wanted to have anything to do with me since day two."
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