{M} - i fly like pa{p}er, get high like planes.

Barrett · 06-09-2011, 10:38 PM

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His glazed, bloodshot eyes roved around the garage as if seeking clues regarding the next item on his agenda. They were drawn to many things—the wood grain of the table, the metallic glint of a hacksaw, the (relatively) vibrant colours of the area rug—but then they found the convoluted twists and turns of the push mower blades. They lingered here several moments longer than anywhere else, as if his subconscious was driving him toward the answer his conscious mind refused to reach. At length, he remembered what he was supposed to do. “Oh, right,” he muttered to quietly to himself, drifting over to where it was propped against the wall.

He'd just reached out for the handlebar—thank the stars, lest he forget again—when a fanciful voice addressed him from the street. His ears perked forward and his head tipped to one side as he regarded the eccentric coyote, who appeared as if he'd slid down to earth from some sky high place on a rainbow. Between Razekiel's groovy little glasses, kaleidoscopic headband, chromatic bangles and bracelets, and shiny trinkets and piercings, Barrett was distracted to the extent that he missed the first thing the older man said completely. “Urhm,” he started, entranced by the erratic movements of the other man's cig and the smoke that snaked away from it.

Fortunately, the hippie's next words registered a little better. Barrett found himself instantly amused by the drawling slang and a grin spread over his features as he mimicked the same spacey tone. “Oh yea, come on up, broth'r. I'm diggin' those shades,” he invited, speaking audibly for the first time. He waved the coyote closer with one hand while jerking the mower out onto the driveway with the other. Mowing the lawn seemed less appealing now than ever, but Barrett was surprisingly effective at getting work done even when he could barely stand up (something that undoubtedly stemmed from his mother's cruel enjoyment in giving him a list of chores whenever she found him high).

“Whatchya puffin', man, I've got plenty to share,” he said, somehow gesturing at the entire property—and yet nothing in particular—while he leaned on the mower for support.

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