Into The Blue

Thomas Bailey lives in a second-story flat with popcorn ceilings and bare windowboxes. Two of the power outlets in his living room don’t work, but he doesn’t mind; he doesn’t like to bother maintenance.

He’s never had trouble finding his name on novelty keychains. He keeps a plastic ivy wreath on his front door year-round, because it’s nice to look at. Every night before bed, he watches cable on a sturdy box television and treats himself to a glass of filtered tap water. No ice.

Thomas fancies himself a writer. He knows he’s a good one, because he uses words like “precipice” and “effervescent” and “perpetual,” though he’s careful to dish these out sparingly in his works so they don’t seem overused. He’s tried several times to keep a journal, but always eventually quits. The entries look too similar.

At night, he lies beneath a set of plaid flannel sheets and watches his ceiling fan turn. He lets the steady tick of his analog clock lull him to sleep. In the back of his head, like a faint radio someone forgot to switch off, he thinks about that one Talking Heads song.