Literature
Pacing.
Pacing.
Always pacing.
Walking from one end of the room and back again, he rests his chin in one hand and his elbow in the other. His glasses slowly slip down to the end of this nose, and he lazily pushes them back up with his index finger as he continues to wander aimlessly from wall to wall.
His mobile phone rests on the table to the left of the room. On it, the screen lights up the length of time of his most recent call. A bright "18:40" shines into the dim room, almost pleading to be seen, trying to bore into the man's mind as he tries to make sense of the phone call he just ended.
Had he just said what he said? Did he really just do